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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68604 ***</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<div class='tnotes'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Transcriber’s Note:</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>The few footnotes have been collected at the end of each chapter, and are
linked for ease of reference.</p>

<p class='c001'>Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please
see the transcriber’s <a href='#endnote'>note</a> at the end of this text
for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered
during its preparation.</p>

<p class='c001'>The title and author, as well as the publication date, have been
added to the image of the front cover.</p>

<div class='htmlonly'>

<p class='c001'>Any corrections are indicated using an <ins class='correction' title='original'>underline</ins>
highlight. Placing the cursor over the correction will produce the
original text in a small popup.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>

</div>
<div class='epubonly'>

<p class='c001'>Any corrections are indicated as hyperlinks, which will navigate the
reader to the corresponding entry in the corrections table in the
note at the end of the text.</p>

</div>

</div>
<div>
  <h1 class='c002'>EUROPE AND ELSEWHERE</h1>
</div>
<div  class='figcenter id002'>
<img src='images/i_half_title.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>

<div  class='figcenter id003'>
<img src='images/frontispiece.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p><span class='small'>AND I ROSE TO RECEIVE MY GUEST, AND BRACED MYSELF FOR THE<br />THUNDERCRASH AND THE BRIMSTONE STENCH WHICH<br />SHOULD ANNOUNCE HIS ARRIVAL</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class='c003'>(<i>See p. <a href='#Page_326'>326</a></i>)</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c004'>
    <div><span class='xxlarge'>EUROPE</span></div>
    <div><span class='xxlarge'>AND ELSEWHERE</span></div>
    <div class='c005'>By</div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xlarge'>MARK TWAIN</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>WITH AN APPRECIATION BY</div>
    <div><span class='large'>BRANDER MATTHEWS</span></div>
    <div>AND AN INTRODUCTION BY</div>
    <div><span class='large'>ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div  class='figcenter id004'>
<img src='images/title_page.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='large'>HARPER &amp; BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS</span></div>
    <div>NEW YORK AND LONDON</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c000' />
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c004'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_I'>I</span>EUROPE AND ELSEWHERE</div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c006' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Copyright, 1923</div>
    <div>By The Mark Twain Company</div>
    <div>Printed in the U.S.A.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c006' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><i>First Edition</i></div>
    <div><span class='small'>E-X</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CONTENTS</h2>
</div>

<table class='table0' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='14%' />
<col width='78%' />
<col width='7%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><span class='small'>CHAP.</span></td>
    <td class='c008'>&nbsp;</td>
    <td class='c009'><span class='small'>PAGE</span></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>&nbsp;</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>An Appreciation</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_vii'>vii</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>&nbsp;</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Introduction</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_xxxi'>xxxi</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>I.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Memorable Midnight Experience</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>II.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Two Mark Twain Editorials</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_14'>14</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>III.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Temperance Crusade and Woman’s Rights</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_24'>24</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>IV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>O’Shah</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_31'>31</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>V.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Wonderful Pair of Slippers</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_87'>87</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Aix, the Paradise of the Rheumatics</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_94'>94</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Marienbad--A Health Factory</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_113'>113</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>VIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Down the Rhône</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_129'>129</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>IX.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Lost Napoleon</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_169'>169</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>X.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Some National Stupidities</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_175'>175</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Cholera Epidemic in Hamburg</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_186'>186</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Queen Victoria’s Jubilee</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_193'>193</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Letters to Satan</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_211'>211</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>A Word of Encouragement for Our Blushing Exiles</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_221'>221</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Dueling</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_225'>225</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Skeleton Plan of a Proposed Casting Vote Party</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_233'>233</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The United States of Lyncherdom</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_239'>239</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XVIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>To the Person Sitting in Darkness</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_250'>250</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XIX.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>To My Missionary Critics</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_273'>273</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XX.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Thomas Brackett Reed</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_297'>297</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Finished Book</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_299'>299</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>As Regards Patriotism</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_301'>301</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Dr. Loeb’s Incredible Discovery</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_304'>304</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The Dervish and the Offensive Stranger</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_310'>310</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Instructions in Art</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_315'>315</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Sold to Satan</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_326'>326</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>That Day in Eden</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_339'>339</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXVIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Eve Speaks</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_347'>347</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXIX.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Samuel Erasmus Moffett</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_351'>351</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXX.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The New Planet</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_355'>355</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXI.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Marjorie Fleming, the Wonder Child</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_358'>358</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Adam’s Soliloquy</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_377'>377</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXIII.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Bible Teaching and Religious Practice</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_387'>387</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXIV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>The War Prayer</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_394'>394</a></td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'>XXXV.</td>
    <td class='c008'><span class='sc'>Corn-pone Opinions</span></td>
    <td class='c009'><a href='#Page_399'>399</a></td>
  </tr>
</table>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_vii'>vii</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>AN APPRECIATION</h2>
</div>
<hr class='c010' />

<p class='c001'>(This “Biographical Criticism” was prepared by Prof.
Brander Matthews, as an introduction to the Uniform Edition
of Mark Twain’s Works, published in 1899).</p>

<p class='c011'>It is a common delusion of those who discuss contemporary
literature that there is such an entity
as the “reading public,” possessed of a certain uniformity
of taste. There is not one public; there are
many publics--as many, in fact, as there are different
kinds of taste; and the extent of an author’s popularity
is in proportion to the number of these separate
publics he may chance to please. Scott, for example,
appealed not only to those who relished
romance and enjoyed excitement, but also to those
who appreciated his honest portrayal of sturdy characters.
Thackeray is preferred by ambitious youth
who are insidiously flattered by his tacit compliments
to their knowledge of the world, by the disenchanted
who cannot help seeing the petty meannesses of society,
and by the less sophisticated in whom sentiment
has not gone to seed in sentimentality. Dickens in
his own day bid for the approval of those who liked
broad caricature (and were therefore pleased with
Stiggins and Chadband), of those who fed greedily
on plentiful pathos (and were therefore delighted
with the deathbeds of Smike and Paul Dombey and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_viii'>viii</span>Little Nell) and also of those who asked for unexpected
adventure (and were therefore glad to disentangle
the melodramatic intrigues of Ralph
Nickleby).</p>

<p class='c001'>In like manner the American author who has
chosen to call himself Mark Twain has attained to an
immense popularity because the qualities he possesses
in a high degree appeal to so many and so
widely varied publics--first of all, no doubt, to the
public that revels in hearty and robust fun, but also
to the public which is glad to be swept along by the
full current of adventure, which is sincerely touched
by manly pathos, which is satisfied by vigorous and
exact portrayal of character, and which respects
shrewdness and wisdom and sanity and a healthy
hatred of pretense and affectation and sham. Perhaps
no one book of Mark Twain’s--with the possible
exception of <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>--is equally a
favorite with all his readers; and perhaps some of
his best characteristics are absent from his earlier
books or but doubtfully latent in them. Mark
Twain is many sided; and he has ripened in knowledge
and in power since he first attracted attention
as a wild Western funny man. As he has grown
older he has reflected more; he has both broadened
and deepened. The writer of “comic copy” for a
mining-camp newspaper has developed into a liberal
humorist, handling life seriously and making his
readers think as he makes them laugh, until to-day
Mark Twain has perhaps the largest audience of any
author now using the English language. To trace
the stages of this evolution and to count the steps
<span class='pageno' id='Page_ix'>ix</span>whereby the sagebrush reporter has risen to the rank
of a writer of world-wide celebrity, is as interesting
as it is instructive.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>I</h3>

<p class='c013'>Samuel Langhorne Clemens was born November
30, 1835, at Florida, Missouri. His father was a
merchant who had come from Tennessee and who
removed soon after his son’s birth to Hannibal, a
little town on the Mississippi. What Hannibal was
like and what were the circumstances of Mr. Clemen’s
boyhood we can see for ourselves in the convincing
pages of <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite>. Mr. Howells has
called Hannibal “a loafing, out-at-elbows, down-at-the-heels,
slave-holding Mississippi town”; and
Mr. Clemens, who silently abhorred slavery, was of
a slave-owning family.</p>

<p class='c001'>When the future author was but twelve his father
died, and the son had to get his education as best
he could. Of actual schooling he got little and of
book learning still less, but life itself is not a bad
teacher for a boy who wants to study, and young
Clemens did not waste his <a id='corrix.22'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='chances'>chances.</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_ix.22'><ins class='correction' title='chances'>chances.</ins></a></span> He spent six
years in the printing office of the little local paper,--for,
like not a few others on the list of <a id='corrix.24'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Americnn'>American</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_ix.24'><ins class='correction' title='Americnn'>American</ins></a></span>
authors that stretches from Benjamin Franklin to
William Dean Howells, he began his connection with
literature by setting type. As a journeyman printer
the lad wandered from town to town and rambled
even as far east as New York.</p>

<p class='c001'>When he was nineteen he went back to the home
of his boyhood and presently resolved to become a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_x'>x</span>pilot on the Mississippi. How he learned the river
he has told us in <cite>Life on the Mississippi</cite>, wherein his
adventures, his experiences, and his impressions
while he was a cub pilot are recorded with a combination
of precise veracity and abundant humor
which makes the earlier chapters of that marvelous
book a most masterly fragment of autobiography.
The life of a pilot was full of interest and excitement
and opportunity, and what young Clemens saw and
heard and divined during the years when he was
going up and down the mighty river we may read in
the pages of <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite> and <cite>Pudd’nhead
Wilson</cite>. But toward the end of the ’fifties the railroads
began to rob the river of its supremacy as a
carrier; and in the beginning of the ’sixties the Civil
War broke out and the Mississippi no longer went
unvexed to the sea. The skill, slowly and laboriously
acquired, was suddenly rendered useless, and at
twenty-five the young man found himself bereft of
his calling. As a border state, Missouri was sending
her sons into the armies of the Union and into the
armies of the Confederacy, while many a man stood
doubting, not knowing which way to turn. The ex-pilot
has given us the record of his very brief and
inglorious service as a soldier of the South. When
this escapade was swiftly ended, he went to the
Northwest with his brother, who had been appointed
Territorial Secretary of Nevada. Thus the man who
had been born on the borderland of North and South,
who had gone East as a jour-printer, who had been
again and again up and down the Mississippi, now
went West while he was still plastic and impressionable;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span>and he had thus another chance to increase
that intimate knowledge of American life and
American character which is one of the most precious
of his possessions.</p>

<p class='c001'>While still on the river he had written a satiric
letter or two which found their way into print. In
Nevada he went to the mines and lived the life
he has described in <cite>Roughing It</cite>, but when he failed
to “strike it rich,” he naturally drifted into journalism
and back into a newspaper office again. The
<cite>Virginia City Enterprise</cite> was not overmanned, and
the newcomer did all sorts of odd jobs, finding time
now and then to write a sketch which seemed important
enough to permit of his signature. He now
began to sign himself Mark Twain, taking the name
from a call of the man who heaves the lead on a
Mississippi River steamboat, and who cries, “By the
mark, three,” “Mark Twain,” and so on. The
name of Mark Twain soon began to be known to
those who were curious in newspaper humor. After
a while he was drawn across the mountains to San
Francisco, where he found casual employment on
the <cite>Morning Call</cite>, and where he joined himself to a
little group of aspiring <em>literators</em> which included Mr.
Bret Harte, Mr. Noah Brooks, Mr. Charles Henry
Webb, and Mr. Charles Warren Stoddard.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was in 1867 that Mr. Webb published Mark
Twain’s first book, <cite>The Celebrated Jumping Frog of
Calaveras</cite>; and it was in 1867 that the proprietors
of the <cite>Alta California</cite> supplied him with the
funds necessary to enable him to become one of the
passengers on the steamer <i>Quaker City</i>, which had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xii'>xii</span>been chartered to take a select party on what is now
known as the Mediterranean trip. The weekly letters,
in which he set forth what befell him on this
journey, were printed in the <cite>Alta</cite> Sunday after Sunday,
and were copied freely by the other Californian
papers. These letters served as the foundation of a
book published in 1869 and called <cite>The Innocents
Abroad</cite>, a book which instantly brought to the
author celebrity and cash.</p>

<p class='c001'>Both of these valuable aids to ambition were increased
by his next step, his appearance on the
lecture platform. Mr. Noah Brooks, who was
present at his first attempt, has recorded that Mark
Twain’s “method as a lecturer was distinctly unique
and novel. His slow, deliberate drawl, the anxious
and perturbed expression of his visage, the apparently
painful effort with which he framed his sentences,
the surprise that spread over his face when
the audience roared with delight or rapturously applauded
the finer passages of his word painting, were
unlike anything of the kind they had ever known.”
In the thirty years since that first appearance the
method has not changed, although it has probably
matured. Mark Twain is one of the most effective
of platform speakers and one of the most artistic,
with an art of his own which is very individual and
very elaborate in spite of its seeming simplicity.</p>

<p class='c001'>Although he succeeded abundantly as a lecturer,
and although he was the author of the most widely
circulated book of the decade, Mark Twain still
thought of himself only as a journalist; and when
he gave up the West for the East he became an
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xiii'>xiii</span>editor of the Buffalo <cite>Express</cite>, in which he had
bought an interest. In 1870 he married; and it is
perhaps not indiscreet to remark that his was
another of those happy unions of which there have
been so many in the annals of American authorship.
In 1871 he removed to Hartford, where his home
has been ever since; and at the same time he gave
up newspaper work.</p>

<p class='c001'>In 1872 he wrote <cite>Roughing It</cite>, and in the following
year came his first sustained attempt at
fiction, <cite>The Gilded Age</cite>, written in collaboration
with Mr. Charles Dudley Warner. The character
of “Colonel Mulberry Sellers” Mark Twain soon
took out of this book to make it the central figure
of a play which the late John T. Raymond acted
hundreds of times throughout the United States,
the playgoing public pardoning the inexpertness of
the dramatist in favor of the delicious humor and the
compelling veracity with which the chief character
was presented. So universal was this type and so
broadly recognizable its traits that there were few
towns wherein the play was presented in which some
one did not accost the actor who impersonated the
ever-hopeful schemer to declare: “I’m the original
of Sellers! Didn’t Mark ever tell you? Well, he
took the Colonel from me!”</p>

<p class='c001'>Encouraged by the welcome accorded to this first
attempt at fiction, Mark Twain turned to the days
of his boyhood and wrote <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite>, published
in 1875. He also collected his sketches, scattered
here and there in newspapers and magazines. Toward
the end of the ’seventies he went to Europe
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xiv'>xiv</span>again with his family; and the result of this journey
is recorded in <cite>A Tramp Abroad</cite>, published in 1880.
Another volume of sketches, <cite>The Stolen White
Elephant</cite>, was put forth in 1882; and in the same
year Mark Twain first came forward as a historical
novelist--if <cite>The Prince and the Pauper</cite> can fairly
be called a historical novel. The year after, he
sent forth the volume describing his <cite>Life on the
Mississippi</cite>; and in 1884 he followed this with the
story in which that life has been crystallized forever,
<cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>, the finest of his books, the deepest
in its insight, and the widest in its appeal.</p>

<p class='c001'>This Odyssey of the Mississippi was published by
a new firm, in which the author was a chief partner,
just as Sir Walter Scott had been an associate
of Ballantyne and Constable. There was at first
a period of prosperity in which the house issued
the <cite>Personal Memoirs</cite> of Grant, giving his widow
checks for $350,000 in 1886, and in which Mark
Twain himself published <cite>A Connecticut Yankee at
King Arthur’s Court</cite>, a volume of <cite>Merry Tales</cite>, and a
story called <cite>The American Claimant</cite>, wherein
“Colonel Sellers” reappears. Then there came a
succession of hard years; and at last the publishing
house in which Mark Twain was a partner failed,
as the publishing house in which Walter Scott was
a partner had formerly failed. The author of
<cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite> at sixty found himself suddenly
saddled with a load of debt, just as the author of
<cite>Waverley</cite> had been burdened full threescore years
earlier; and Mark Twain stood up stoutly under it,
as Scott had done before him. More fortunate than
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xv'>xv</span>the Scotchman, the American has lived to pay the
debt in full.</p>

<p class='c001'>Since the disheartening crash came, he has given
to the public a third Mississippi River tale, <cite>Pudd’nhead
Wilson</cite>, issued in 1894; and a third historical
novel <cite>Joan of Arc</cite>, a reverent and sympathetic
study of the bravest figure in all French
history, printed anonymously in <cite>Harper’s Magazine</cite>
and then in a volume acknowledged by the author in
1896. As one of the results of a lecturing tour
around the world he prepared another volume of
travels, <cite>Following the Equator</cite>, published toward
the end of 1897. Mention must also be made of a
fantastic tale called <cite>Tom Sawyer Abroad</cite>, sent
forth in 1894, of a volume of sketches, <cite>The Million
Pound Bank-Note</cite>, assembled in 1893, and also
of a collection of literary essays, <cite>How to Tell a Story</cite>,
published in 1897.</p>

<p class='c001'>This is but the barest outline of Mark Twain’s life--such
a brief summary as we must have before us
if we wish to consider the conditions under which the
author has developed and the stages of his growth.
It will serve, however, to show how various have
been his forms of activity--printer, pilot, miner,
journalist, traveler, lecturer, novelist, publisher--and
to suggest the width of his experience of life.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>II</h3>

<p class='c013'>A humorist is often without honor in his own
country. Perhaps this is partly because humor is
likely to be familiar, and familiarity breeds contempt.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xvi'>xvi</span>Perhaps it is partly because (for some strange
reason) we tend to despise those who make us
laugh, while we respect those who make us weep--forgetting
that there are formulas for forcing tears
quite as facile as the formulas for forcing smiles.
Whatever the reason, the fact is indisputable that the
humorist must pay the penalty of his humor; he
must run the risk of being tolerated as a mere fun
maker, not to be taken seriously, and unworthy
of critical consideration. This penalty has been
paid by Mark Twain. In many of the discussions
of American literature he is dismissed as though
he were only a competitor of his predecessors,
Artemus Ward and John Phœnix, instead of being,
what he is really, a writer who is to be classed--at
whatever interval only time may decide--rather
with Cervantes and Molière.</p>

<p class='c001'>Like the heroines of the problem plays of the
modern theater, Mark Twain has had to live down
his past. His earlier writing gave but little promise
of the enduring qualities obvious enough in his later
works. Mr. Noah Brooks has told us how he was
advised, if he wished to “see genuine specimens of
American humor, frolicsome, extravagant, and audacious,”
to look up the sketches which the then almost
unknown Mark Twain was printing in a Nevada
newspaper. The humor of Mark Twain is still
American, still frolicsome, extravagant, and audacious;
but it is riper now and richer, and it has taken
unto itself other qualities existing only in germ in
these firstlings of his muse. The sketches in <cite>The
Jumping Frog</cite> and the letters which made up <cite>The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xvii'>xvii</span>Innocents Abroad</cite> are “comic copy,” as the phrase is
in newspaper offices--comic copy not altogether
unlike what John Phœnix had written and Artemus
Ward, better indeed than the work of these newspaper
humorists (for Mark Twain had it in him to develop
as they did not), but not essentially dissimilar.</p>

<p class='c001'>And in the eyes of many who do not think for
themselves, Mark Twain is only the author of these
genuine specimens of American humor. For when
the public has once made up its mind about any
man’s work, it does not relish any attempt to force
it to unmake this opinion and to remake it. Like
other juries, it does not like to be ordered to reconsider
its verdict as contrary to the facts of the case.
It is always sluggish in beginning the necessary readjustment,
and not only sluggish, but somewhat
grudging. Naturally it cannot help seeing the later
works of a popular writer from the point of view it
had to take to enjoy his earlier writings. And thus
the author of <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite> and <cite>Joan of Arc</cite>
is forced to pay a high price for the early and abundant
popularity of <cite>The Innocents Abroad</cite>.</p>

<p class='c001'>No doubt, a few of his earlier sketches were inexpensive
in their elements; made of materials worn
threadbare by generations of earlier funny men, they
were sometimes cut in the pattern of his predecessors.
No doubt, some of the earliest of all were
crude and highly colored, and may even be called
forced, not to say violent. No doubt, also, they
did not suggest the seriousness and the melancholy
which always must underlie the deepest humor, as
we find it in Cervantes and Molière, in Swift and in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xviii'>xviii</span>Lowell. But even a careless reader, skipping
through the book in idle amusement, ought to have
been able to see in <cite>The Innocents Abroad</cite> that the
writer of that liveliest of books of travel was no
mere merry-andrew, grinning through a horse collar
to make sport for the groundlings; but a sincere observer
of life, seeing through his own eyes and setting
down what he saw with abundant humor, of
course, but also with profound respect for the eternal
verities.</p>

<p class='c001'>George Eliot in one of her essays calls those who
parody lofty themes “debasers of the moral currency.”
Mark Twain is always an advocate of the
sterling ethical standard. He is ready to overwhelm
an affectation with irresistible laughter, but he never
lacks reverence for the things that really deserve
reverence. It is not at the Old Masters that he
scoffs in Italy, but rather at those who pay lip service
to things which they neither enjoy nor understand.
For a ruin or a painting or a legend that does not
seem to him to deserve the appreciation in which
it is held he refuses to affect an admiration he does
not feel; he cannot help being honest--he was born
so. For meanness of all kinds he has a burning
contempt; and on Abelard he pours out the vials
of his wrath. He has a quick eye for all humbugs
and a scorching scorn for them; but there is no
attempt at being funny in the manner of the cockney
comedians when he stands in the awful presence
of the Sphinx. He is not taken in by the glamour
of Palestine; he does not lose his head there; he
keeps his feet: but he knows that he is standing on
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xix'>xix</span>holy ground; and there is never a hint of irreverence
in his attitude.</p>

<p class='c001'><cite>A Tramp Abroad</cite> is a better book than <cite>The Innocents
Abroad</cite>; it is quite as laughter-provoking,
and its manner is far more restrained. Mark Twain
was then master of his method, sure of himself,
secure of his popularity; and he could do his best
and spare no pains to be certain that it was his
best. Perhaps there is a slight falling off in <cite>Following
the Equator</cite>; a trace of fatigue, of weariness,
of disenchantment. But the last book of
travels has passages as broadly humorous as any of
the first; and it proves the author’s possession of a
pithy shrewdness not to be suspected from a perusal
of its earliest predecessor. The first book was the
work of a young fellow rejoicing in his own fun and
resolved to make his readers laugh with him or at
him; the latest book is the work of an older man,
who has found that life is not all laughter, but whose eye
is as clear as ever and whose tongue is as plain-spoken.</p>

<p class='c001'>These three books of travel are like all other books
of travel in that they relate in the first person what
the author went forth to see. Autobiographic also
are <cite>Roughing It</cite> and <cite>Life on the Mississippi</cite>, and
they have always seemed to me better books than
the more widely circulated travels. They are
better because they are the result of a more intimate
knowledge of the material dealt with. Every traveler
is of necessity but a bird of passage; he is a mere
carpetbagger; his acquaintance with the countries
he visits is external only; and this acquaintanceship
is made only when he is a full-grown man. But
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xx'>xx</span>Mark Twain’s knowledge of the Mississippi was acquired
in his youth; it was not purchased with a
price; it was his birthright; and it was internal and
complete. And his knowledge of the mining camp
was achieved in early manhood when the mind is
open and sensitive to every new impression. There
is in both these books a fidelity to the inner truth,
a certainty of touch, a sweep of vision, not to be
found in the three books of travels. For my own
part I have long thought that Mark Twain could
securely rest his right to survive as an author on
those opening chapters in <cite>Life on the Mississippi</cite>
in which he makes clear the difficulties, the seeming
impossibilities, that fronted those who wished to
learn the river. These chapters are bold and brilliant,
and they picture for us forever a period and a
set of conditions, singularly interesting and splendidly
varied, that otherwise would have had to forego
all adequate record.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>III</h3>

<p class='c013'>It is highly probable that when an author reveals
the power of evoking views of places and of calling
up portraits of people such as Mark Twain showed
in <cite>Life on the Mississippi</cite>, and when he has the
masculine grasp of reality Mark Twain made evident
in <cite>Roughing It</cite>, he must needs sooner or later turn
from mere fact to avowed fiction and become a
story-teller. The long stories which Mark Twain
has written fall into two divisions--first, those of
which the scene is laid in the present, in reality, and
mostly in the Mississippi Valley, and second, those
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxi'>xxi</span>of which the scene is laid in the past, in fantasy
mostly, and in Europe.</p>

<p class='c001'>As my own liking is a little less for the latter
group, there is no need for me now to linger over
them. In writing these tales of the past Mark Twain
was making up stories in his head; personally I prefer
the tales of his in which he has his foot firm on
reality. <cite>The Prince and the Pauper</cite> has the essence
of boyhood in it; it has variety and vigor; it has
abundant humor and plentiful pathos; and yet I
for one would give the whole of it for the single
chapter in which Tom Sawyer lets the contract for
whitewashing his aunt’s fence.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Howells has declared that there are two kinds
of fiction he likes almost equally well--“a real
novel and a pure romance”; and he joyfully accepts
<cite>A Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court</cite> as
“one of the greatest romances ever imagined.”
It is a humorous romance overflowing with stalwart
fun; and it is not irreverent, but iconoclastic, in that
it breaks not a few disestablished idols. It is intensely
American and intensely nineteenth century
and intensely democratic--in the best sense of that
abused adjective. The British critics were greatly
displeased with the book;--and we are reminded of
the fact that the Spanish still somewhat resent <cite>Don
Quixote</cite> because it brings out too truthfully the
fatal gap in the Spanish character between the ideal
and the real. So much of the feudal still survives in
British society that Mark Twain’s merry and elucidating
assault on the past seemed to some almost an
insult to the present.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xxii'>xxii</span>But no critic, British or American, has ventured to
discover any irreverence in <cite>Joan of Arc</cite>, wherein,
indeed, the tone is almost devout and the humor
almost too much subdued. Perhaps it is my own
distrust of the so-called historical novel, my own disbelief
that it can ever be anything but an inferior
form of art, which makes me care less for this worthy
effort to honor a noble figure. And elevated and
dignified as is the <cite>Joan of Arc</cite>, I do not think that
it shows us Mark Twain at his best; although it
has many a passage that only he could have written,
it is perhaps the least characteristic of his works.
Yet it may well be that the certain measure of success
he has achieved in handling a subject so lofty and so
serious, will help to open the eyes of the public to
see the solid merits of his other stories, in which his
humor has fuller play and in which his natural gifts
are more abundantly displayed.</p>

<p class='c001'>Of these other stories three are “real novels,” to
use Mr. Howells’s phrase; they are novels as real
as any in any literature. <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite> and <cite>Huckleberry
Finn</cite> and <cite>Pudd’nhead Wilson</cite> are invaluable
contributions to American literature--for American
literature is nothing if it is not a true picture of
American life and if it does not help us to understand
ourselves. <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite> is a very amusing
volume, and a generation has read its pages and
laughed over it immoderately; but it is very much
more than a funny book; it is a marvelously accurate
portrayal of a whole civilization. Mr. Ormsby, in
an essay which accompanies his translation of <cite>Don
Quixote</cite>, has pointed out that for a full century
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxiii'>xxiii</span>after its publication that greatest of novels was
enjoyed chiefly as a tale of humorous misadventure,
and that three generations had laughed over it
before anybody suspected that it was more than a
mere funny book. It is perhaps rather with the
picaresque romances of Spain that <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>
is to be compared than with the masterpiece of
Cervantes; but I do not think it will be a century
or take three generations before we Americans generally
discover how great a book <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>
really is, how keen its vision of character, how close
its observation of life, how sound its philosophy, and
how it records for us once and for all certain phases of
Southwestern society which it is most important for
us to perceive and to understand. The influence of
slavery, the prevalence of feuds, the conditions and
the circumstances that make lynching possible--all
these things are set before us clearly and without
comment. It is for us to draw our own moral, each
for himself, as we do when we see Shakespeare
acted.</p>

<p class='c001'><cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>, in its art, for one thing, and
also in its broader range, is superior to <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite>
and to <cite>Pudd’nhead Wilson</cite>, fine as both these are in
their several ways. In no book in our language,
to my mind, has the boy, simply as a boy, been
better realized than in <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite>. In some
respects <cite>Pudd’nhead Wilson</cite> is the most dramatic
of Mark Twain’s longer stories, and also the most
ingenious; like <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite> and <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>,
it has the full flavor of the Mississippi River, on
which its author spent his own boyhood, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxiv'>xxiv</span>from contact with the soil of which he always rises
reinvigorated.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is by these three stories, and especially by
<cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>, that Mark Twain is likely to
live longest. Nowhere else is the life of the Mississippi
Valley so truthfully recorded. Nowhere else
can we find a gallery of Southwestern characters as
varied and as veracious as those Huck Finn met in
his wanderings. The histories of literature all praise
the <cite>Gil Blas</cite> of Le Sage for its amusing adventures,
its natural characters, its pleasant humor, and
its insight into human frailty; and the praise is deserved.
But in everyone of these qualities <cite>Huckleberry
Finn</cite> is superior to <cite>Gil Blas</cite>. Le Sage set
the model of the picaresque novel, and Mark Twain
followed his example; but the American book is
richer than the French--deeper, finer, stronger. It
would be hard to find in any language better specimens
of pure narrative, better examples of the
power of telling a story and of calling up action so
that the reader cannot help but see it, than Mark
Twain’s account of the Shepherdson-Grangerford
feud, and his description of the shooting of Boggs
by Sherburn and of the foiled attempt to lynch
Sherburn afterward.</p>

<p class='c001'>These scenes, fine as they are, vivid, powerful,
and most artistic in their restraint, can be matched
in the two other books. In <cite>Tom Sawyer</cite> they can
be paralleled by the chapter in which the boy and
the girl are lost in the cave, and Tom, seeing a gleam
of light in the distance, discovers that it is a candle
carried by Indian Joe, the one enemy he has in the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxv'>xxv</span>world. In <cite>Pudd’nhead Wilson</cite> the great passages
of <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite> are rivaled by that most pathetic
account of the weak son willing to sell his own
mother as a slave “down the river.” Although
no one of the books is sustained throughout on this
high level, and although, in truth, there are in each of
them passages here and there that we could wish
away (because they are not worthy of the association
in which we find them), I have no hesitation in
expressing here my own conviction that the man who
has given us four scenes like these is to be compared
with the masters of literature; and that he can abide
the comparison with equanimity.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>IV</h3>

<p class='c013'>Perhaps I myself prefer these three Mississippi
Valley books above all Mark Twain’s other writings
(although with no lack of affection for those also)
partly because these have the most of the flavor of
the soil about them. After veracity and the sense
of the universal, what I best relish in literature is this
native aroma, pungent, homely, and abiding. Yet
I feel sure that I should not rate him so high if
he were the author of these three books only. They
are the best of him, but the others are good also,
and good in a different way. Other writers have
given us this local color more or less artistically,
more or less convincingly: one New England and
another New York, a third Virginia, and a fourth
Georgia, and a fifth Wisconsin; but who so well as
Mark Twain has given us the full spectrum of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxvi'>xxvi</span>Union? With all his exactness in reproducing the
Mississippi Valley, Mark Twain is not sectional in
his outlook; he is national always. He is not narrow;
he is not Western or Eastern; he is American with
a certain largeness and boldness and freedom and certainty
that we like to think of as befitting a country
so vast as ours and a people so independent.</p>

<p class='c001'>In Mark Twain we have “the national spirit as
seen with our own eyes,” declared Mr. Howells;
and, from more points of view than one, Mark Twain
seems to me to be the very embodiment of Americanism.
Self-educated in the hard school of life, he
has gone on broadening his outlook as he has grown
older. Spending many years abroad, he has come
to understand other nationalities, without enfeebling
his own native faith. Combining a mastery of the
commonplace with an imaginative faculty, he is a
practical idealist. No respecter of persons, he has a
tender regard for his fellow man. Irreverent toward
all outworn superstitions, he has ever revealed
the deepest respect for all things truly worthy of
reverence. Unwilling to take pay in words, he is
impatient always to get at the root of the matter, to
pierce to the center, to see the thing as it is. He
has a habit of standing upright, of thinking for himself,
and of hitting hard at whatsoever seems to him
hateful and mean; but at the core of him there is
genuine gentleness and honest sympathy, brave
humanity and sweet kindliness. Perhaps it is boastful
for us to think that these characteristics which we see
in Mark Twain are characteristics also of the American
people as a whole; but it is pleasant to think so.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xxvii'>xxvii</span>Mark Twain has the very marrow of Americanism.
He is as intensely and as typically American as
Franklin or Emerson or Hawthorne. He has not a
little of the shrewd common sense and the homely
and unliterary directness of Franklin. He is not
without a share of the aspiration and the elevation
of Emerson; and he has a philosophy of his own as
optimistic as Emerson’s. He possesses also somewhat
of Hawthorne’s interest in ethical problems,
with something of the same power of getting at the
heart of them; he, too, has written his parables and
apologues wherein the moral is obvious and unobtruded.
He is uncompromisingly honest; and his
conscience is as rugged as his style sometimes is.</p>

<p class='c001'>No American author has to-day at his command a
style more nervous, more varied, more flexible, or
more various than Mark Twain’s. His colloquial
ease should not hide from us his mastery of all the
devices of rhetoric. He may seem to disobey the
letter of the law sometimes, but he is always obedient
to the spirit. He never speaks unless he has something
to say; and then he says it tersely, sharply,
with a freshness of epithet and an individuality of
phrase, always accurate, however unacademic. His
vocabulary is enormous, and it is deficient only in
the dead words; his language is alive always, and
actually tingling with vitality. He rejoices in the
daring noun and in the audacious adjective. His instinct
for the exact word is not always unerring, and
now and again he has failed to exercise it; but there
is in his prose none of the flatting and sharping he
censured in Fenimore Cooper’s. His style has
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxviii'>xxviii</span>none of the cold perfection of an antique statue; it is
too modern and too American for that, and too completely
the expression of the man himself, sincere
and straightforward. It is not free from slang,
although this is far less frequent than one might expect;
but it does its work swiftly and cleanly. And
it is capable of immense variety. Consider the tale
of the Blue Jay in <cite>A Tramp Abroad</cite>, wherein the
humor is sustained by unstated pathos; what could
be better told than this, with every word the right
word and in the right place? And take Huck Finn’s
description of the storm when he was alone on the
island, which is in dialect, which will not parse, which
bristles with double negatives, but which none the
less is one of the finest passages of descriptive prose
in all American literature.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>V</h3>

<p class='c013'>After all, it is as a humorist pure and simple that
Mark Twain is best known and best beloved. In
the preceding pages I have tried to point out the
several ways in which he transcends humor, as the
word is commonly restricted, and to show that he is
no mere fun maker. But he is a fun maker beyond
all question, and he has made millions laugh as no
other man of our century has done. The laughter
he has aroused is wholesome and self-respecting; it
clears the atmosphere. For this we cannot but be
grateful. As Lowell said, “let us not be ashamed
to confess that, if we find the tragedy a bore, we
take the profoundest satisfaction in the farce. It is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxix'>xxix</span>a mark of sanity.” There is no laughter in Don
Quixote, the noble enthusiast whose wits are unsettled;
and there is little on the lips of Alceste the
misanthrope of Molière; but for both of them life
would have been easier had they known how to
laugh. Cervantes himself, and Molière also, found
relief in laughter for their melancholy; and it was
the sense of humor which kept them tolerantly interested
in the spectacle of humanity, although life had
pressed hardly on them both. On Mark Twain also
life has left its scars; but he has bound up his
wounds and battled forward with a stout heart, as
Cervantes did, and Molière. It was Molière who
declared that it was a strange business to undertake
to make people laugh; but even now, after two
centuries, when the best of Molière’s plays are acted,
mirth breaks out again and laughter overflows.</p>

<p class='c001'>It would be doing Mark Twain a disservice to liken
him to Molière, the greatest comic dramatist of all
time; and yet there is more than one point of similarity.
Just as Mark Twain began by writing comic
copy which contained no prophecy of a masterpiece
like <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>, so Molière was at
first the author only of semiacrobatic farces on the
Italian model in no wise presaging <cite>Tartuffe</cite> and
<cite>The Misanthrope</cite>. Just as Molière succeeded first
of all in pleasing the broad public that likes robust
fun, and then slowly and step by step developed into
a dramatist who set on the stage enduring figures
plucked out of the abounding life about him, so
also has Mark Twain grown, ascending from <cite>The
Jumping Frog</cite> to <cite>Huckleberry Finn</cite>, as comic as its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxx'>xxx</span>elder brother and as laughter-provoking, but charged
also with meaning and with philosophy. And like
Molière again, Mark Twain has kept solid hold of
the material world; his doctrine is not of the earth
earthy, but it is never sublimated into sentimentality.
He sympathizes with the spiritual side of
humanity, while never ignoring the sensual. Like
Molière, Mark Twain takes his stand on common
sense and thinks scorn of affectation of every sort.
He understands sinners and strugglers and weaklings;
and he is not harsh with them, reserving his
scorching hatred for hypocrites and pretenders and
frauds.</p>

<p class='c001'>At how long an interval Mark Twain shall be rated
after Molière and Cervantes it is for the future to
declare. All that we can see clearly now is that it is
with them that he is to be classed--with Molière
and Cervantes, with Chaucer and Fielding, humorists
all of them, and all of them manly men.</p>

<div  class='figright id005'>
<img src='images/i_xxx.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_xxxi'>xxxi</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>INTRODUCTION</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>A number of articles in this volume, even the
more important, have not heretofore appeared
in print. Mark Twain was nearly always writing--busily
trying to keep up with his imagination and
enthusiasm: A good many of his literary undertakings
remained unfinished or were held for further
consideration, in time to be quite forgotten. Few
of these papers were unimportant, and a fresh interest
attaches to them to-day in the fact that they present
some new detail of the author’s devious wanderings,
some new point of observation, some hitherto
unexpressed angle of his indefatigable thought.</p>

<p class='c001'>The present collection opens with a chapter
from a book that was never written, a book about
England, for which the author made some preparation,
during his first visit to that country, in 1872.
He filled several notebooks with brief comments,
among which appears this single complete episode, the
description of a visit to Westminster Abbey by
night. As an example of what the book might have
been we may be sorry that it went no farther.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was not, however, quite in line with his proposed
undertaking, which had been to write a more or
less satirical book on English manners and customs.
Arriving there, he found that he liked the people
and their country too well for that, besides he was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxxii'>xxxii</span>so busy entertaining, and being entertained, that he
had little time for critical observation. In a letter
home he wrote:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>I came here to take notes for a book, but I haven’t done much
but attend dinners and make speeches. I have had a jolly good
time, and I do hate to go away from these English folks; they
make a stranger feel entirely at home, and they laugh so easily
that it is a comfort to make after-dinner speeches here.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>England at this time gave Mark Twain an even
fuller appreciation than he had thus far received in
his own country. To hunt out and hold up to
ridicule the foibles of hosts so hospitable would have
been quite foreign to his nature. The notes he made
had little satire in them, being mainly memoranda of
the moment....</p>

<p class='c001'>“Down the Rhône,” written some twenty years
later, is a chapter from another book that failed of
completion. Mark Twain, in Europe partly for his
health, partly for financial reasons, had agreed to
write six letters for the New York <cite>Sun</cite>, two of which--those
from Aix and Marienbad--appear in this
volume. Six letters would not make a book of
sufficient size and he thought he might supplement
them by making a drifting trip down the Rhône,
the “river of angels,” as Stevenson called it, and
turning it into literature.</p>

<p class='c001'>The trip itself proved to be one of the most delightful
excursions of his life, and his account of it,
so far as completed, has interest and charm. But he
was alone, with only his boatman (the “Admiral”)
and his courier, Joseph Very, for company, a monotony
of human material that was not inspiring. He
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxxiii'>xxxiii</span>made some attempt to introduce fictitious characters,
but presently gave up the idea. As a whole
the excursion was too drowsy and comfortable to
stir him to continuous effort; neither the notes nor
the article, attempted somewhat later, ever came to
conclusion.</p>

<p class='c001'>Three articles in this volume, beginning with “To
the Person Sitting in Darkness,” were published in
the <cite>North American Review</cite> during 1901-02, at a
period when Mark Twain had pretty well made up
his mind on most subjects, and especially concerning
the interference of one nation with another on
matters of religion and government. He had
recently returned from a ten years’ sojourn in Europe
and his opinion was eagerly sought on all public
questions, especially upon those of international
aspect. He was no longer regarded merely as a
humorist, but as a sort of Solon presiding over a
court of final conclusions. A writer in the <cite>Evening
Mail</cite> said of this later period:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Things have reached the point where, if Mark Twain is not at
a public meeting or banquet, he is expected to console it with one
of his inimitable letters of advice and encouragement.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>His old friend, W. D. Howells, expressed an
amused fear that Mark Twain’s countrymen, who in
former years had expected him to be merely a
humorist, should now, in the light of his wider
acceptance abroad, demand that he be mainly
serious.</p>

<p class='c001'>He was serious enough, and fiercely humorous as
well, in his article “To the Person Sitting in Darkness”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxxiv'>xxxiv</span>and in those which followed it. It seemed to
him that the human race, always a doubtful quantity,
was behaving even worse than usual. On New
Year’s Eve, 1900-01, he wrote:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>A GREETING FROM THE NINETEENTH TO THE</div>
    <div>TWENTIETH CENTURY</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>I bring you the stately nation named Christendom, returning,
bedraggled, besmirched, and dishonored, from pirate raids in
Kiao-Chau, Manchuria, South Africa, and the Philippines, with
her soul full of meanness, her pocket full of boodle, and her
mouth full of pious hypocracies. Give her soap and a towel,
but hide the looking-glass.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>Certain missionary activities in China, in particular,
invited his attention, and in the first of the
<cite>Review</cite> articles he unburdened himself. A masterpiece
of pitiless exposition and sarcasm, its publication
stirred up a cyclone. Periodicals more or
less orthodox heaped upon him denunciation and
vituperation. “To My Missionary Critics,” published
in the <cite>Review</cite> for April, was his answer. He
did not fight alone, but was upheld by a vast following
of liberal-minded readers, both in and out of
the Church. Edward S. Martin wrote him:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>How gratifying it is to feel that we have a man among us who
understands the rarity of plain truth, and who delights to utter
it, and has the gift of doing so without cant, and with not too
much seriousness.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>The principals of the primal human drama, our
biblical parents of Eden, play a considerable part in
Mark Twain’s imaginative writings. He wrote
“Diaries” of both Adam and Eve, that of the latter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_xxxv'>xxxv</span>being among his choicest works. He was generally
planning something that would include one or both
of the traditional ancestors, and results of this
tendency express themselves in the present volume.
Satan, likewise, the picturesque angel of rebellion
and defeat, the Satan of <cite>Paradise Lost</cite>, made a
strong appeal and in no less than three of the articles
which follow the prince of error variously appears.
For the most part these inventions offer an aspect of
humor; but again the figure of the outcast angel is
presented to us in an attitude of sorrowful kinship
with the great human tragedy.</p>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Albert Bigelow Paine</span></div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c004'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>EUROPE AND ELSEWHERE</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>A MEMORABLE MIDNIGHT EXPERIENCE <br /> <span class='small'>(1872)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_1_0_4 c014'>“Come along--and hurry. Few people have got
originality enough to think of the expedition
I have been planning, and still fewer could carry it
out, maybe, even if they <em>did</em> think of it. Hurry,
now. Cab at the door.”</p>

<p class='c001'>It was past eleven o’clock and I was just going to
bed. But this friend of mine was as reliable as he
was eccentric, and so there was not a doubt in my
mind that his “expedition” had merit in it. I put
on my coat and boots again, and we drove away.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Where is it? Where are we going?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Don’t worry. You’ll see.”</p>

<p class='c001'>He was not inclined to talk. So I thought this
must be a weighty matter. My curiosity grew with
the minutes, but I kept it manfully under the surface.
I watched the lamps, the signs, the numbers,
as we thundered down the long streets, but it was of
no use--I am always lost in London, day or night. It
was very chilly--almost bleak. People leaned
against the gusty blasts as if it were the dead of
winter. The crowds grew thinner and thinner and
the noises waxed faint and seemed far away. The
sky was overcast and threatening. We drove on,
and still on, till I wondered if we were ever going
to stop. At last we passed by a spacious bridge and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>a vast building with a lighted clock tower, and
presently entered a gateway, passed through a sort
of tunnel, and stopped in a court surrounded by the
black outlines of a great edifice. Then we alighted,
walked a dozen steps or so, and waited. In a little
while footsteps were heard and a man emerged from
the darkness and we dropped into his wake without
saying anything. He led us under an archway of
masonry, and from that into a roomy tunnel, through
a tall iron gate, which he locked behind us. We
followed him down this tunnel, guided more by his
footsteps on the stone flagging than by anything
we could very distinctly see. At the end of it we
came to another iron gate, and our conductor
stopped there and lit a little bull’s-eye lantern. Then
he unlocked the gate--and I wished he had oiled it
first, it grated so dismally. The gate swung open
and we stood on the threshold of what seemed a
limitless domed and pillared cavern carved out of the
solid darkness. The conductor and my friend took off
their hats reverently, and I did likewise. For the
moment that we stood thus there was not a sound,
and the silence seemed to add to the solemnity of the
gloom. I <em>looked</em> my inquiry!</p>

<p class='c001'>“It is the tomb of the great dead of England--<cite>Westminster
Abbey</cite>.”</p>

<p class='c001'>(One cannot express a start--in words.) Down
among the columns--ever so far away, it seemed--a
light revealed itself like a star, and a voice came
echoing through the spacious emptiness:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Who goes there!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Wright!”</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>The star disappeared and the footsteps that accompanied
it clanked out of hearing in the distance.
Mr. Wright held up his lantern and the vague
vastness took something of form to itself--the
stately columns developed stronger outlines, and a
dim pallor here and there marked the places of lofty
windows. We were among the tombs; and on every
hand dull shapes of men, sitting, standing, or stooping,
inspected us curiously out of the darkness--reached
out their hands toward us--some appealing,
some beckoning, some warning us away. Effigies,
they were--statues over the graves; but they
looked human and natural in the murky shadows.
Now a little half-grown black-and-white cat squeezed
herself through the bars of the iron gate and came
purring lovingly about us, unawed by the time or
the place--unimpressed by the marble pomp that
sepulchers a line of mighty dead that ends with a
great author of yesterday and began with a sceptered
monarch away back in the dawn of history more
than twelve hundred years ago. And she followed
us about and never left us while we pursued our
work. We wandered hither and thither, uncovered,
speaking in low voices, and stepping softly by
instinct, for any little noise rang and echoed there
in a way to make one shudder. Mr. Wright flashed
his lantern first upon this object and then upon that,
and kept up a running commentary that showed
that there was nothing about the venerable Abbey
that was trivial in his eyes or void of interest. He is
a man in authority--being superintendent of the
works--and his daily business keeps him familiar
<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>with every nook and corner of the great pile. Casting
a luminous ray now here, now yonder, he would
say:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Observe the height of the Abbey--one hundred
and three feet to the base of the roof--I measured
it myself the other day. Notice the base of this
column--old, very old--hundreds and hundreds of
years; and how well they knew how to build in
those old days. Notice it--every stone is laid
horizontally--that is to say, just as nature laid it
originally in the quarry--not set up edgewise; in
our day some people set them on edge, and then
wonder why they split and flake. Architects cannot
teach nature anything. Let me remove this
matting--it is put there to preserve the pavement;
now, there is a bit of pavement that is seven hundred
years old; you can see by these scattering clusters
of colored mosaics how beautiful it was before time
and sacrilegious idlers marred it. Now there, in the
border, was an inscription once; see, follow the
circle--you can trace it by the ornaments that have
been pulled out--here is an A, and there is an O,
and yonder another A--all beautiful old English
capitals--there is no telling what the inscription
was--no record left, now. Now move along in this
direction, if you please. Yonder is where old King
Sebert the Saxon, lies--his monument is the oldest
one in the Abbey; Sebert died in 616, and that’s as
much as twelve hundred and fifty years ago--think
of it!--twelve hundred and fifty years. Now yonder
is the last one--Charles Dickens--there on the floor
with the brass letters on the slab--and to this day
<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>the people come and put flowers on it. Why, along
at first they almost had to <em>cart</em> the flowers out, there
were so many. Could not <em>leave</em> them there, you
know, because it’s where everybody walks--and
a body wouldn’t want them trampled on, anyway.
All this place about here, now, is the Poet’s
Corner. There is Garrick’s monument, and Addison’s,
and Thackeray’s bust--and Macaulay lies
there. And here, close to Dickens and Garrick, lie
Sheridan and Doctor Johnson--and here is old Parr--Thomas
Parr--you can read the inscription:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>“Tho: Par of Y Covnty of Sallop Borne A :1483. He
Lived in Y Reignes of Ten Princes, viz: K. Edw. 4
K. Ed. 5. K. Rich 3. K. Hen. 7. K. Hen. 8. Edw. 6. QVV. Ma.
Q. Eliz. K. IA. and K. Charles, Aged 152 Yeares, And
Was Buryed Here Novemb. 15. 1635.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>“Very old man indeed, and saw a deal of life.
(Come off the grave, Kitty, poor thing; she keeps
the rats away from the office, and there’s no harm
in her--her and her mother.) And here--this is
Shakespeare’s statue--leaning on his elbow and
pointing with his finger at the lines on the scroll:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,</div>
      <div class='line'>The solemn temples, the great globe itself,</div>
      <div class='line'>Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve,</div>
      <div class='line'>And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,</div>
      <div class='line'>Leave not a wrack behind.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>“That stone there covers Campbell the poet.
Here are names you know pretty well--Milton, and
Gray who wrote the ‘Elegy,’ and Butler who wrote
‘Hudibras,’ and Edmund Spencer, and Ben Jonson--there
are three tablets to him scattered about the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>Abbey, and all got ‘O Rare Ben Jonson’ cut on
them--you were standing on one of them just now--he
is buried standing up. There used to be a tradition
here that explains it. The story goes that he
did not dare ask to be buried in the Abbey, so he
asked King James if he would make him a present of
eighteen inches of English ground, and the king
said yes, and asked him where he would have it, and
he said in Westminster Abbey. Well, the king
wouldn’t go back on his word, and so there he is
sure enough--stood up on end. Years ago, in Dean
Buckland’s time--before my day--they were digging
a grave close to Jonson and they uncovered him and
his head fell off. Toward night the clerk of the
works hid the head to keep it from being stolen, as
the ground was to remain open till next day. Presently
the dean’s son came along and he found a
head, and hid it away for Jonson’s. And by and by
along comes a stranger, and <em>he</em> found a head, too,
and walked off with it under his cloak, and a month
or so afterward he was heard to boast that he had
Ben Jonson’s head. Then there was a deal of correspondence
about it, in the <cite>Times</cite>, and everybody
distressed. But Mr. Frank Buckland came out and
comforted everybody by telling how he saved the
true head, and so the stranger must have got one
that wasn’t of any consequence. And then up speaks
the clerk of the works and tells how <em>he</em> saved the
right head, and so <em>Dean Buckland</em> must have got a
wrong one. Well, it was all settled satisfactorily at
last, because the clerk of the works <em>proved</em> his head.
And then I believe they got that head from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>stranger--so now we have three. But it shows you
what regiments of people you are walking over--been
collecting here for twelve hundred years--in
some places, no doubt, the bones are fairly matted
together.</p>

<p class='c001'>“And here are some unfortunates. Under this
place lies Anne, queen of Richard III, and daughter
of the Kingmaker, the great Earl of Warwick--murdered
she was--poisoned by her husband. And
here is a slab which you see has once had the figure of
a man in armor on it, in brass or copper, let into the
stone. You can see the shape of it--but it is all
worn away now by people’s feet; the man has been
dead five hundred years that lies under it. He was
a knight in Richard II’s time. His enemies pressed
him close and he fled and took sanctuary here in the
Abbey. Generally a man was safe when he took
sanctuary in those days, but this man was not. The
captain of the Tower and a band of men pursued
him and his friends and they had a bloody fight here
on this floor; but this poor fellow did not stand
much of a chance, and they butchered him right
before the altar.”</p>

<p class='c001'>We wandered over to another part of the Abbey,
and came to a place where the pavement was being
repaired. Every paving stone has an inscription on
it and covers a grave. Mr. Wright continued:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Now, you are standing on William Pitt’s grave--you
can read the name, though it is a good deal
worn--and you, sir, are standing on the grave of
Charles James Fox. I found a very good place here
the other day--nobody suspected it--been curiously
<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>overlooked, somehow--but--it is a very nice place
indeed, and very comfortable” (holding his bull’s
eye to the pavement and searching around). “Ah,
here it is--this is the stone--nothing under here--nothing
at all--a very nice place indeed--and very
comfortable.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Wright spoke in a professional way, of course,
and after the manner of a man who takes an interest
in his business and is gratified at any piece of good
luck that fortune favors him with; and yet <a id='corr8.10'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='will'>with</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_8.10'><ins class='correction' title='will'>with</ins></a></span> all
that silence and gloom and solemnity about me,
there was something about his idea of a nice, comfortable
place that made the cold chills creep up my
back. Presently we began to come upon little
chamberlike chapels, with solemn figures ranged
around the sides, lying apparently asleep, in sumptuous
marble beds, with their hands placed together
above their breasts--the figures and all their surroundings
black with age. Some were dukes and
earls, some where kings and queens, some were
ancient abbots whose effigies had lain there so many
centuries and suffered such disfigurement that their
faces were almost as smooth and featureless as the
stony pillows their heads reposed upon. At one time
while I stood looking at a distant part of the pavement,
admiring the delicate tracery which the now
flooding moonlight was casting upon it through a
lofty window, the party moved on and I lost them.
The first step I made in the dark, holding my hands
before me, as one does under such circumstances,
I touched a cold object, and stopped to feel its
shape. I made out a thumb, and then delicate
<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>fingers. It was the clasped, appealing hands of one
of those reposing images--a lady, a queen. I
touched the face--by accident, not design--and
shuddered inwardly, if not outwardly; and then
something rubbed against my leg, and I shuddered
outwardly and inwardly both. It was the cat. The
friendly creature meant well, but, as the English say,
she gave me “such a turn.” I took her in my arms
for company and wandered among the grim sleepers
till I caught the glimmer of the lantern again. Presently,
in a little chapel, we were looking at the sarcophagus,
let into the wall, which contains the bones
of the infant princes who were smothered in the
Tower. Behind us was the stately monument of
Queen Elizabeth, with her effigy dressed in the royal
robes, lying as if at rest. When we turned around,
the cat, with stupendous simplicity, was coiled up
and sound asleep upon the feet of the Great Queen!
Truly this was reaching far toward the millennium
when the lion and the lamb shall lie down together.
The murderer of Mary and Essex, the conqueror of
the Armada, the imperious ruler of a turbulent
empire, become a couch, at last, for a tired kitten!
It was the most eloquent sermon upon the vanity of
human pride and human grandeur that inspired
Westminster preached to us that night.</p>

<p class='c001'>We would have turned puss out of the Abbey, but
for the fact that her small body made light of railed
gates and she would have come straight back again.
We walked up a flight of half a dozen steps and,
stopping upon a pavement laid down in 1260, stood
in the core of English history, as it were--upon the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>holiest ground in the British Empire, if profusion of
kingly bones and kingly names of old renown make
holy ground. For here in this little space were the
ashes, the monuments and gilded effigies, of ten of
the most illustrious personages who have worn
crowns and borne scepters in this realm. This
royal dust was the slow accumulation of hundreds of
years. The latest comer entered into his rest four
hundred years ago, and since the earliest was sepulchered,
more than eight centuries have drifted by.
Edward the Confessor, Henry the Fifth, Edward the
First, Edward the Third, Richard the Second, Henry
the Third, Eleanor, Philippa, Margaret Woodville--it
was like bringing the <a id='corr10.14'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='collossal'>colossal</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_10.14'><ins class='correction' title='collossal'>colossal</ins></a></span> myths of history
out of the forgotten ages and speaking to them face
to face. The gilded effigies were scarcely marred--the
faces were comely and majestic, old Edward the
First looked the king--one had no impulse to be
familiar with him. While we were contemplating
the figure of Queen Eleanor lying in state, and
calling to mind how like an ordinary human being
the great king mourned for her six hundred years
ago, we saw the vast illuminated clock face of the
Parliament House tower glowering at us through a
window of the Abbey and pointing with both hands to
midnight. It was a derisive reminder that we were a
part of this present sordid, plodding, commonplace
time, and not august relics of a bygone age and the
comrades of kings--and then the booming of the
great bell tolled twelve, and with the last stroke
the mocking clock face vanished in sudden darkness
and left us with the past and its grandeurs again.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>We descended, and entered the nave of the
splendid Chapel of Henry VII. Mr. Wright said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Here is where the order of knighthood was conferred
for centuries; the candidates sat in these
seats; these brasses bear their coats of arms; these
are their banners overhead, torn and dusty, poor old
things, for they have hung there many and many a
long year. In the floor you see inscriptions--kings
and queens that lie in the vault below. When this
vault was opened in our time they found them lying
there in beautiful order--all quiet and comfortable--the
red velvet on the coffins hardly faded any.
And the bodies were sound--I saw them myself.
They were embalmed, and looked natural, although
they had been there such an awful time.
Now in this place here, which is called the chantry,
is a curious old group of statuary--the figures are
mourning over George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham,
who was assassinated by Felton in Charles I’s
time. Yonder, Cromwell and his family used to lie.
Now we come to the south aisle and this is the grand
monument to Mary Queen of Scots, and her effigy--you
easily see they get all the portraits from this
effigy. Here in the wall of the aisle is a bit of a
curiosity pretty roughly carved:</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>Wm. WEST TOOME</div>
    <div>SHOWER</div>
    <div>1698</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>“William West, tomb shower, 1698. That fellow
carved his name around in several places about the
Abbey.”</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>This was a sort of revelation to me. I had been
wandering through the Abbey, never imagining but
that its shows were created only for us--the people
of the nineteenth century. But here is a man (become
a show himself now, and a curiosity) to whom
all these things were sights and wonders a hundred
and seventy-five years ago. When curious idlers
from the country and from foreign lands came here
to look, he showed them old Sebert’s tomb and those
of the other old worthies I have been speaking of, and
called them ancient and venerable; and he showed
them Charles II’s tomb as the newest and latest
novelty he had; and he was doubtless present at the
funeral. Three hundred years before his time some
ancestor of his, perchance, used to point out the
ancient marvels, in the immemorial way and then
say: “This, gentlemen, is the tomb of his late
Majesty Edward the Third--and I wish I could see
him alive and hearty again, as I saw him twenty
years ago; yonder is the tomb of Sebert the Saxon
king--he has been lying there well on to eight
hundred years, they say. And three hundred years
before <em>this</em> party, Westminster was still a show, and
Edward the Confessor’s grave was a novelty of some
thirty years’ standing--but old “Sebert” was
hoary and ancient still, and people who spoke of
Alfred the Great as a comparatively recent man
pondered over Sebert’s grave and tried to take in all
the tremendous meaning of it when the “toome
shower” said, “This man has lain here well nigh five
hundred years.” It does seem as if all the generations
that have lived and died since the world was
<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>created have visited Westminster to stare and wonder--and
still found ancient things there. And some
day a curiously clad company may arrive here in a
balloon ship from some remote corner of the globe,
and as they follow the verger among the monuments
they may hear him say: “This is the tomb of Victoria
the Good Queen; battered and uncouth as it
looks, it once was a wonder of magnificence--but
twelve hundred years work a deal of damage to these
things.”</p>

<p class='c001'>As we turned toward the door the moonlight was
beaming in at the windows, and it gave to the
sacred place such an air of restfulness and peace
that Westminster was no longer a grisly museum of
moldering vanities, but her better and worthier self--the
deathless mentor of a great nation, the guide
and encourager of right ambitions, the preserver of
just fame, and the home and refuge for the nation’s
best and bravest when their work is done.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>TWO MARK TWAIN EDITORIALS</h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c011'>(Written 1869 and 1870, for the Buffalo <cite>Express</cite>, of which
Mark Twain became editor and part owner)</p>

</div>

<h3 class='c012'>I <br /> “SALUTATORY”</h3>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c017'>Being a stranger, it would be immodest and
unbecoming in me to suddenly and violently
assume the associate editorship of the <cite>Buffalo Express</cite>
without a single explanatory word of comfort
or encouragement to the unoffending patrons of the
paper, who are about to be exposed to constant attacks
of my wisdom and learning. But this explanatory
word shall be as brief as possible. I only
wish to assure parties having a friendly interest in
the prosperity of the journal, that I am not going to
hurt the paper deliberately and intentionally at any
time. I am not going to introduce any startling
reforms, or in any way attempt to make trouble. I
am simply going to do my plain, unpretending duty,
when I cannot get out of it; I shall work diligently
and honestly and faithfully at all times and upon all
occasions, when privation and want shall compel
me to do it; in writing, I shall always confine myself
strictly to the truth, except when it is attended
with inconvenience; I shall witheringly rebuke all
forms of crime and misconduct, except when committed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>by the party inhabiting my own vest; I shall
not make use of slang or vulgarity upon any occasion
or under any circumstances, and shall never use
profanity except in discussing house rent and taxes.
Indeed, upon second thought, I will not even use it
then, for it is unchristian, inelegant, and degrading--though
to speak truly I do not see how house rent
and taxes are going to be discussed worth a cent
without it. I shall not often meddle with politics,
because we have a political editor who is already
excellent, and only needs to serve a term in the
penitentiary in order to be perfect. I shall not write
any poetry, unless I conceive a spite against the
subscribers.</p>

<p class='c001'>Such is my platform. I do not see any earthly use
in it, but custom is law, and custom must be obeyed,
no matter how much violence it may do to one’s
feelings. And this custom which I am slavishly following
now is surely one of the least necessary that
ever came into vogue. In private life a man does
not go and trumpet his crime before he commits it,
but your new editor is such an important personage
that he feels called upon to write a “salutatory” at
once, and he puts into it all that he knows, and all
that he don’t know, and some things he thinks he
knows but isn’t certain of. And he parades his list
of wonders which he is going to perform; of reforms
which he is going to introduce, and public evils which
he is going to exterminate; and public blessings
which he is going to create; and public nuisances
which he is going to abate. He spreads this all out
with oppressive solemnity over a column and a half
<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>of large print, and feels that the country is saved.
His satisfaction over it, something enormous. He
then settles down to his miracles and inflicts profound
platitudes and impenetrable wisdom upon a
helpless public as long as they can stand it, and then
they send him off consul to some savage island in the
Pacific in the vague hope that the cannibals will like
him well enough to eat him. And with an inhumanity
which is but a fitting climax to his career
of persecution, instead of packing his trunk at once
he lingers to inflict upon his benefactors a “valedictory.”
If there is anything more uncalled for
than a “salutatory,” it is one of those tearful,
blubbering, long-winded “valedictories”--wherein
a man who has been annoying the public for ten
years cannot take leave of them without sitting
down to cry a column and a half. Still, it is the
custom to write valedictories, and custom should be
respected. In my secret heart I admire my predecessor
for declining to print a valedictory, though
in public I say and shall continue to say sternly, it is
custom and he ought to have printed one. People
never read them any more than they do the “salutatories,”
but nevertheless he ought to have honored
the old fossil--he ought to have printed a valedictory.
I said as much to him, and he replied:</p>

<p class='c001'>“I have resigned my place--I have departed this
life--I am journalistically dead, at present, ain’t I?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Well, wouldn’t you consider it disgraceful in a
corpse to sit up and comment on the funeral?”</p>

<p class='c001'>I record it here, and preserve it from oblivion, as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>the briefest and best “valedictory” that has yet
come under my notice.</p>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Mark Twain.</span></div>

<p class='c001'>P. S.--I am grateful for the kindly way in which
the press of the land have taken notice of my irruption
into regular journalistic life, telegraphically
or editorially, and am happy in this place to express
the feeling.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>II <br /> A TRIBUTE TO ANSON BURLINGAME</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>(February, 1870)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c018'>On Wednesday, in St. Petersburg, Mr. Burlingame
died after a short illness. It is not easy
to comprehend, at an instant’s warning, the exceeding
magnitude of the loss which mankind sustains
in this death--the loss which all nations and
all peoples sustain in it. For he had outgrown the
narrow citizenship of a state and become a citizen
of the world; and his charity was large enough and
his great heart warm enough to feel for all its races
and to labor for them. He was a true man, a brave
man, an earnest man, a liberal man, a just man, a
generous man, in all his ways and by all his instincts
a noble man; he was a man of education and culture,
a finished conversationalist, a ready, able, and graceful
speaker, a man of great brain, a broad and deep
and weighty thinker. He was a great man--a very,
very great man. He was imperially endowed by
nature; he was faithfully befriended by circumstances,
and he wrought gallantly always, in whatever
station he found himself.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>He was a large, handsome man, with such a face
as children instinctively trust in, and homeless and
friendless creatures appeal to without fear. He was
courteous at all times and to all people, and he had
the rare and winning faculty of being always <em>interested</em>
in whatever a man had to say--a faculty which
he possessed simply because nothing was trivial to
him which any man or woman or child had at heart.
When others said harsh things about even unconscionable
and intrusive bores after they had retired
from his presence, Mr. Burlingame often said a
generous word in their favor, but never an unkind one.</p>

<p class='c001'>A chivalrous generosity was his most marked
characteristic--a large charity, a noble kindliness
that could not comprehend narrowness or meanness.
It is this that shows out in his fervent abolitionism,
manifested at a time when it was neither very creditable
nor very safe to hold such a creed; it was this
that prompted him to hurl his famous Brooks-and-Sumner
speech in the face of an astonished South
at a time when all the North was smarting under
the sneers and taunts and material aggressions of
admired and applauded Southerners. It was this
that made him so warmly espouse the cause of
Italian liberty--an espousal so pointed and so
vigorous as to attract the attention of Austria,
which empire afterward declined to receive him
when he was appointed Austrian envoy by Mr.
Lincoln. It was this trait which prompted him to
punish Americans in China when they imposed upon
the Chinese. It was this trait which moved him,
in framing treaties, to frame them in the broad
<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>interest of the world, instead of selfishly seeking to
acquire advantages for his own country alone and
at the expense of the other party to the treaty, as had
always before been the recognized “diplomacy.” It
was this trait which was and is the soul of the crowning
achievements of his career, the treaties with
America and England in behalf of China. In every
labor of this man’s life there was present a good and
noble motive; and in nothing that he ever did or
said was there anything small or base. In real
greatness, ability, grandeur of character, and achievement,
he stood head and shoulders above all the
Americans of to-day, save one or two.</p>

<p class='c001'>Without any noise, or any show, or any flourish,
Mr. Burlingame did a score of things of shining
mark during his official residence in China. They
were hardly heard of away here in America. When
he first went to China, he found that with all their
kingly powers, American envoys were still not of
much consequence in the eyes of their countrymen
of either civil or official position. But he was a man
who was always “posted.” He knew all about the
state of things he would find in China before he
sailed from America. And so he took care to demand
and receive additional powers before he turned
his back upon Washington. When the customary
consular irregularities placidly continued and he
notified those officials that such irregularities must
instantly cease, and they inquired with insolent
flippancy what the consequence might be in case
they did not cease, he answered blandly that he
would <em>dismiss</em> them, from the highest to the lowest!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>(He had quietly come armed with absolute authority
over their official lives.) The consular irregularities
ceased. A far healthier condition of American
commercial interests ensued there.</p>

<p class='c001'>To punish a foreigner in China was an unheard-of
thing. There was no way of accomplishing it. Each
Embassy had its own private district or grounds,
forced from the imperial government, and into that
sacred district Chinese law officers could not intrude.
All foreigners guilty of offenses against
Chinamen were tried by their own countrymen, in
these holy places, and as no Chinese testimony was
admitted, the culprit almost always went free. One
of the very first things Mr. Burlingame did was
to make a Chinaman’s oath as good as a foreigner’s;
and in his ministerial court, through Chinese and
American testimony combined, he very shortly
convicted a noted American ruffian of murdering a
Chinaman. And now a community accustomed to
light sentences were naturally startled when, under
Mr. Burlingame’s hand, and bearing the broad seal
of the American Embassy, came an order to take
him out and hang him!</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Burlingame broke up the “extra-territorial”
privileges (as they were called), as far as our country
was concerned, and made justice as free to all and
as untrammeled in the metes and bounds of its jurisdiction,
in China, as ever it was in any land.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Burlingame was the leading spirit in the co-operative
policy. He got the Imperial College established.
He procured permission for an American
to open the coal mines of China. Through his efforts
<span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>China was the first country to close her ports against
the war vessels of the Southern Confederacy; and
Prince Kung’s order, in this matter, was singularly
energetic, comprehensive, and in earnest. The ports
were closed then, and never opened to a Southern
warship afterward.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Burlingame “construed” the treaties existing
between China and the other nations. For many
years the ablest diplomatists had vainly tried to
come to a satisfactory understanding of certain obscure
clauses of these treaties, and more than once
powder had been burned in consequences of failure
to come to such understandings. But the clear and
comprehensive intellect of the American envoy reduced
the wordy tangle of diplomatic phrases to a
plain and honest handful of paragraphs, and these
were unanimously and thankfully accepted by the
other foreign envoys, and officially declared by them
to be a thorough and satisfactory elucidation of all
the uncertain clauses in the treaties.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Burlingame did a mighty work, and made
official intercourse with China lucid, simple, and
systematic, thenceforth for all time, when he persuaded
that government to adopt and accept the
code of international law by which the civilized
nations of the earth are guided and controlled.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is not possible to specify all the acts by which
Mr. Burlingame made himself largely useful to the
world during his official residence in China. At least
it would not be possible to do it without making
this sketch too lengthy and pretentious for a newspaper
article.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>Mr. Burlingame’s short history--for he was only
forty-seven--reads like a fairy tale. Its successes,
its surprises, its happy situations, occur all along,
and each new episode is always an improvement
upon the one which went before it.</p>

<p class='c001'>He begins life an assistant in a surveying party
away out on the Western frontier; then enters a
branch of a Western college; then passes through
Harvard with the honors; becomes a Boston lawyer
and looks back complacently from his high perch
upon the old days when he was a surveyor nobody
in the woods; becomes a state senator, and makes
laws; still advancing, goes to the Constitutional
Convention and makes regulations wherewith to rule
the makers of laws; enters Congress and smiles
back upon the Legislature and the Boston lawyer,
and from these smiles still back upon the country
surveyor, recognizes that he is known to fame in
Massachusetts; challenges Brooks and is known to
the nation; next, with a long stride upward, he is
clothed with ministerial dignity and journeys to the
under side of the world to represent the youngest
in the court of the oldest of the nations; and finally,
after years go by, we see him moving serenely among
the crowned heads of the Old World, a magnate
with secretaries and undersecretaries about him, a
retinue of quaint, outlandish Orientals in his wake,
and a long following of servants--and the world is
aware that his salary is unbelievably enormous, not
to say imperial, and likewise knows that he is invested
with power to make treaties with all the chief
nations of the earth, and that he bears the stately
<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>title of Ambassador, and in his person represents
the mysterious and awful grandeur of that vague
colossus, the Emperor of China, his mighty empire
and his four hundred millions of subjects! Down
what a dreamy vista his backward glance must
stretch, now, to reach the insignificant surveyor in
the Western woods!</p>

<p class='c001'>He was a good man, and a very, very great man.
America lost a son, and all the world a servant, when
he died.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE TEMPERANCE CRUSADE AND <br />WOMAN’S RIGHTS <br /> <span class='small'>(1873)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>The women’s crusade against the rum sellers continues.
It began in an Ohio village early in
the new year, and has now extended itself eastwardly
to the Atlantic seaboard, 600 miles, and
westwardly (at a bound, without stopping by the
way,) to San Francisco, about 2,500 miles. It has
also scattered itself along down the Ohio and Mississippi
rivers southwardly some ten or twelve hundred
miles. Indeed, it promises to sweep, eventually, the
whole United States, with the exception of the little
cluster of commonwealths which we call New England.
Puritan New England is sedate, reflective,
conservative, and very hard to inflame.</p>

<p class='c001'>The method of the crusaders is singular. They
contemn the use of force in the breaking up of the
whisky traffic. They only assemble before a drinking
shop, or within it, and sing hymns and pray,
hour after hour--and day after day, if necessary--until
the publican’s business is broken up and he
surrenders. This is not force, at least they do not
consider it so. After the surrender the crusaders
march back to headquarters and proclaim the
victory, and ascribe it to the powers above. They
rejoice together awhile, and then go forth again in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>their strength and conquer another whisky shop
with their prayers and hymns and their staying
capacity (pardon the rudeness), and spread <em>that</em>
victory upon the battle flag of the powers above. In
this generous way the crusaders have parted with
the credit of not less than three thousand splendid
triumphs, which some carping people say they gained
their own selves, without assistance from any quarter.
If I am one of these, I am the humblest. If I seem to
doubt that prayer is the agent that conquers these
rum sellers, I do it honestly, and not in a flippant
spirit. If the crusaders were to stay at home and
pray for the rum seller and for his adoption of a better
way of life, or if the crusaders even assembled together
in a church and offered up such a prayer with
a united voice, and it accomplished a victory, I
would then feel that it was the praying that moved
Heaven to do the miracle; for I believe that if the
prayer is the agent that brings about the desired
result, it cannot be necessary to pray the prayer in
any particular place in order to get the ear, or move
the grace, of the Deity. When the crusaders go and
invest a whisky shop and fall to praying, one suspects
that they are praying rather less to the Deity
than <em>at</em> the rum man. So I cannot help feeling (after
carefully reading the details of the rum sieges) that
as much as nine tenths of the credit of each of the
3,000 victories achieved thus far belongs of right to
the crusaders themselves, and it grieves me to see
them give it away with such spendthrift generosity.</p>

<p class='c001'>I will not afflict you with statistics, but I desire
to say just a word or two about the character of this
<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>crusade. The crusaders are young girls and women--not
the inferior sort, but the very best in the village
communities. The telegraph keeps the newspapers
supplied with the progress of the war, and thus the
praying infection spreads from town to town, day
after day, week after week. When it attacks a
community it seems to seize upon almost everybody
in it at once. There is a meeting in a church,
speeches are made, resolutions are passed, a purse
for expenses is made up, a “praying band” is appointed;
if it be a large town, half a dozen praying
bands, each numbering as many as a hundred women,
are appointed, and the working district of each band
marked out. Then comes a grand assault in force, all
along the line. Every stronghold of rum is invested;
first one and then another champion ranges up before
the proprietor and offers up a special petition for
him; he has to stand meekly there behind his bar,
under the eyes of a great concourse of ladies who are
better than he is and are aware of it, and hear all the
secret iniquities of his business divulged to the angels
above, accompanied by the sharp sting of wishes for
his regeneration, which imply an amount of need for
it which is in the last degree uncomfortable to him.
If he holds out bravely, the crusaders hold out more
bravely still--or at least more persistently; though
I doubt if the grandeur of the performance would
not be considerably heightened if one solitary
crusader were to try praying at a hundred rum
sellers in a body for a while, and see how it felt to
have everybody against her instead of for her. If
the man holds out the crusaders camp before his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>place and keep up the siege till they wear him out.
In one case they besieged a rum shop two whole
weeks. They built a shed before it and kept up the
praying all night and all day long every day of the
fortnight, and this in the bitterest winter weather,
too. They conquered.</p>

<p class='c001'>You may ask if such an investment and such interference
with a man’s business (in cases where he is
“protected” by a license) is lawful? By no means.
But the whole community being with the crusaders,
the authorities have usually been overawed and
afraid to execute the laws, the authorities being, in
too many cases, mere little politicians, and more
given to looking to chances of re-election than fearlessly
discharging their duty according to the terms
of their official oaths.</p>

<p class='c001'>Would you consider the conduct of these crusaders
justifiable? I do--thoroughly justifiable.
They find themselves voiceless in the making of
laws and the election of officers to execute them.
Born with brains, born in the country, educated,
having large interests at stake, they find their
tongues tied and their hands fettered, while every
ignorant whisky-drinking foreign-born savage in
the land may hold office, help to make the laws,
degrade the dignity of the former and break the
latter at his own sweet will. They see their fathers,
husbands, and brothers sit inanely at home and
allow the scum of the country to assemble at the
“primaries,” name the candidates for office from
their own vile ranks, and, unrebuked, elect them.
They live in the midst of a country where there is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>no end to the laws and no beginning to the execution
of them. And when the laws intended to protect
their sons from destruction by intemperance lie
torpid and without sign of life year after year, they
recognize that here is a matter which interests them
personally--a matter which comes straight home to
them. And since they are allowed to lift no legal
voice against the outrageous state of things they
suffer under in this regard, I think it is no wonder
that their patience has broken down at last, and
they have contrived to persuade themselves that
they are justifiable in breaking the law of trespass
when the laws that should make the trespass
needless are allowed by the voters to lie dead and
inoperative.</p>

<p class='c001'>I cannot help glorying in the pluck of these
women, sad as it is to see them displaying themselves
in these unwomanly ways; sad as it is to see
them carrying their grace and their purity into
places which should never know their presence; and
sadder still as it is to see them trying to save a set
of men who, it seems to me, there can be no reasonable
object in saving. It does not become us to
scoff at the crusaders, remembering what it is they
have borne all these years, but it does become us to
admire their heroism--a heroism that boldly faces
jeers, curses, ribald language, obloquy of every
kind and degree--in a word, every manner of thing
that pure-hearted, pure-minded women such as these
are naturally dread and shrink from, and remains
steadfast through it all, undismayed, patient, hopeful,
giving no quarter, asking none, determined to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>conquer and succeeding. It is the same old superb
spirit that animated that other devoted, magnificent,
mistaken crusade of six hundred years ago. The
sons of such women as these must surely be worth
saving from the destroying power of rum.</p>

<p class='c001'>The present crusade will doubtless do but little
work against intemperance that will be really permanent,
but it will do what is as much, or even more,
to the purpose, I think. I think it will suggest to
more than one man that if women could vote they
would vote on the side of morality, even if they did
vote and speak rather frantically and furiously;
and it will also suggest that when the women once
made up their minds that it was not good to leave
the all-powerful “primaries” in the hands of loafers,
thieves, and pernicious little politicians, they would
not sit indolently at home as their husbands and
brothers do now, but would hoist their praying
banners, take the field in force, pray the assembled
political scum back to the holes and slums where
they belong, and set up some candidates fit for decent
human beings to vote for.</p>

<p class='c001'>I dearly want the women to be raised to the
political altitude of the negro, the imported savage,
and the pardoned thief, and allowed to vote. It is
our last chance, I think. The women will be voting
before long, and then if a B. F. Butler can still continue
to lord it in Congress; if the highest offices in
the land can still continue to be occupied by perjurers
and robbers; if another Congress (like the
forty-second) consisting of 15 honest men and 296
of the other kind can once more be created, it will at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>last be time, I fear, to give over trying to save the
country by human means, and appeal to Providence.
Both the great parties have failed. I wish we might
have a woman’s party now, and see how that would
work. I feel persuaded that in extending the suffrage
to women this country could lose absolutely nothing
and might gain a great deal. For thirty centuries
history has been iterating and reiterating that in a
moral fight woman is simply dauntless, and we all
know, even with our eyes shut upon Congress and
our voters, that from the day that Adam ate of the
apple and told on Eve down to the present day,
man, in a moral fight, has pretty uniformly shown
himself to be an arrant coward.</p>

<p class='c001'>I will mention casually that while I cannot bring
myself to find fault with the women whom we call
the crusaders, since I feel that they, being politically
fettered, have the natural right of the oppressed to
rebel, I have a very different opinion about the
clergymen who have in a multitude of instances
attached themselves to the movement, and by voice
and act have countenanced and upheld the women
in unlawfully trespassing upon whisky mills and
interrupting the rum sellers’ business. It seems to
me that it would better become clergymen to teach
their flocks to respect the laws of the land, and urge
them to refrain from breaking them. But it is not
a new thing for a thoroughly good and well-meaning
preacher’s soft heart to run away with his soft head.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>O’SHAH</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div>(A series of news letters describing a visit to England by the</div>
    <div>Shah of Persia)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<h3 class='c012'>I <br /> THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND</h3>

<div class='c019'><span class='sc'>London</span>, <i>June 18, 1873</i>.</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c018'>“Would you like to go over to Belgium and
help bring the Shah to England?”</p>

<p class='c001'>I said I was willing.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Very well, then; here is an order from the
Admiralty which will admit you on board Her
Majesty’s ship <i>Lively</i>, now lying at Ostend, and
you can return in her day after to-morrow.”</p>

<p class='c001'>That was all. That was the end of it. Without
stopping to think, I had in a manner taken upon
myself to bring the Shah of Persia to England. I
could not otherwise regard the conversation I had
just held with the London representative of the New
York <cite>Herald</cite>. The amount of discomfort I endured
for the next two or three hours cannot be set down
in words. I could not eat, sleep, talk, smoke with
any satisfaction. The more I thought the thing over
the more oppressed I felt. What was the Shah to
me, that I should go to all this worry and trouble on
his account? Where was there the least occasion for
taking upon myself such a responsibility? If I got
him over all right, well. But if I lost him? if he died
<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>on my hands? if he got drowned? It was depressing,
any way I looked at it. In the end I said to myself,
“If I get this Shah over here safe and sound I never
will take charge of another one.” And yet, at the
same time I kept thinking: “This country has
treated me well, stranger as I am, and this foreigner
is the country’s guest--that is enough, I will help
him out; I will fetch him over; I will land him in
London, and say to the British people, ‘Here is your
Shah; give me a receipt.’”</p>

<p class='c001'>I felt easy in my mind now, and was about to go
to bed, but something occurred to me. I took a cab
and drove downtown and routed out that <cite>Herald</cite>
representative.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Where is Belgium?” said I.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Where is Belgium? I never heard such a
question!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“That doesn’t make any difference to me. If I
have got to fetch this Shah I don’t wish to go to the
wrong place. Where is Belgium? Is it a shilling
fare in a cab?”</p>

<p class='c001'>He explained that it was in foreign parts--the
first place I have heard of lately which a body could
not go to in a cab for a shilling.</p>

<p class='c001'>I said I could not go alone, because I could not
speak foreign languages well, could not get up in
time for the early train without help, and could not
find my way. I said it was enough to have the Shah
on my hands; I did not wish to have everything piled
on me. Mr. Blank was then ordered to go with me.
I do like to have somebody along to talk to when I
go abroad.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>When I got home I sat down and thought the
thing all over. I wanted to go into this enterprise
understandingly. What was the main thing? That
was the question. A little reflection informed me.
For two weeks the London papers had sung just one
continual song to just one continual tune, and the
idea of it all was “how to impress the Shah.” These
papers had told all about the St. Petersburg splendors,
and had said at the end that splendors would
no longer answer; that England could not outdo
Russia in that respect; therefore some other way of
impressing the Shah must be contrived. And these
papers had also told all about the Shahstic reception
in Prussia and its attendant military pageantry.
England could not improve on that sort of thing--she
could not impress the Shah with soldiers; something
else must be tried. And so on. Column after
column, page after page of agony about how to
“impress the Shah.” At last they had hit upon a
happy idea--a grand naval exhibition. That was
it! A man brought up in Oriental seclusion and
simplicity, a man who had never seen anything but
camels and such things, could not help being surprised
and delighted with the strange novelty of ships. The
distress was at an end. England heaved a great sigh
of relief; she knew at last how to impress the
Shah.</p>

<p class='c001'>My course was very plain, now, after that bit of
reflection. All I had to do was to go over to Belgium
and impress the Shah. I failed to form any definite
plan as to the process, but I made up my mind to
manage it somehow. I said to myself, “I will impress
<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>this Shah or there shall be a funeral that will be
worth contemplating.”</p>

<p class='c001'>I went to bed then, but did not sleep a great deal,
for the responsibilities were weighing pretty heavily
upon me. At six o’clock in the morning Mr. Blank
came and turned me out. I was surprised at this,
and not gratified, for I detest early rising. I never
like to say severe things, but I was a good deal tried
this time. I said I did not mind getting up moderately
early, but I hated to be called day before
yesterday. However, as I was acting in a national
capacity and for a country that I liked, I stopped
grumbling and we set out. A grand naval review is
a good thing to impress a Shah with, but if he would
try getting up at six o’clock in the morning--but no
matter; we started.</p>

<p class='c001'>We took the Dover train and went whistling along
over the housetops at the rate of fifty miles an hour,
and just as smoothly and pleasantly, too, as if we
were in a sleigh. One never can have anything but
a very vague idea of what speed is until he travels
over an English railway. Our “lightning” expresses
are sleepy and indolent by comparison. We looked
into the back windows of the endless ranks of houses
abreast and below us, and saw many a homelike little
family of early birds sitting at their breakfasts. New
views and new aspects of London were about me;
the mighty city seemed to spread farther and wider
in the clear morning air than it had ever done before.
There is something awe-inspiring about the mere
look of the figures that express the population of
London when one comes to set them down in a good
<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>large hand--4,000,000! It takes a body’s breath
away, almost.</p>

<p class='c001'>We presently left the city behind. We had started
drowsy, but we did not stay so. How could we, with
the brilliant sunshine pouring down, the balmy wind
blowing through the open windows, and the Garden
of Eden spread all abroad? We swept along through
rolling expanses of growing grain--not a stone or a
stump to mar their comeliness, not an unsightly fence
or an ill-kept hedge; through broad meadows covered
with fresh green grass as clean swept as if a broom
had been at work there--little brooks wandering up
and down them, noble trees here and there, cows in
the shade, groves in the distance and church spires
projecting out of them; and there were the quaintest
old-fashioned houses set in the midst of smooth lawns
or partly hiding themselves among fine old forest
trees; and there was one steep-roofed ancient cottage
whose walls all around, and whose roof, and whose
chimneys, were clothed in a shining mail of ivy
leaves!--so thoroughly, indeed, that only one little
patch of roof was visible to prove that the house
was not a mere house of leaves, with glass windows
in it. Imagine those dainty little homes surrounded
by flowering shrubs and bright green grass and all
sorts of old trees--and then go on and try to imagine
something more bewitching.</p>

<p class='c001'>By and by we passed Rochester, and, sure enough,
right there, on the highest ground in the town and
rising imposingly up from among clustering roofs,
was the gray old castle--roofless, ruined, ragged, the
sky beyond showing clear and blue through the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>glassless windows, the walls partly clad with ivy--a
time-scarred, weather-beaten old pile, but ever so
picturesque and ever so majestic, too. There it was,
a whole book of English history. I had read of
Rochester Castle a thousand times, but I had never
really believed there was any such building before.</p>

<p class='c001'>Presently we reached the sea and came to a stand
far out on a pier; and here was Dover and more
history. The chalk cliffs of England towered up
from the shore and the French coast was visible.
On the tallest hill sat Dover Castle, stately and
spacious and superb, looking just as it has always
looked any time these ten or fifteen thousand years--I
do not know its exact age, and it does not matter,
anyway.</p>

<p class='c001'>We stepped aboard the little packet and steamed
away. The sea was perfectly smooth, and painfully
brilliant in the sunshine. There were no curiosities
in the vessel except the passengers and a placard
in French setting forth the transportation fares for
various kinds of people. The lithographer probably
considered that placard a triumph. It was printed
in green, blue, red, black, and yellow; no individual
line in one color, even the individual letters were
separately colored. For instance, the first letter of
a word would be blue, the next red, the next green,
and so on. The placard looked as if it had the smallpox
or something. I inquired the artist’s name and
place of business, intending to hunt him up and kill
him when I had time; but no one could tell me. In
the list of prices first-class passengers were set down
at fifteen shillings and four pence, and dead bodies
<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>at one pound ten shillings and eight pence--just
double price! That is Belgian morals, I suppose.
I never say a harsh thing unless I am greatly stirred;
but in my opinion the man who would take advantage
of a dead person would do almost any odious
thing. I publish this scandalous discrimination
against the most helpless class among us in order
that people intending to die abroad may come back
by some other line.</p>

<p class='c001'>We skimmed over to Ostend in four hours and
went ashore. The first gentleman we saw happened
to be the flag lieutenant of the fleet, and he told
me where the <i>Lively</i> lay, and said she would sail about
six in the morning. Heavens and earth. He said
he would give my letter to the proper authority, and
so we thanked him and bore away for the hotel.
Bore away is good sailor phraseology, and I have
been at sea portions of two days now. I easily pick
up a foreign language.</p>

<p class='c001'>Ostend is a curious, comfortable-looking, massively
built town, where the people speak both the French
and the Flemish with exceeding fluency, and yet I
could not understand them in either tongue. But
I will write the rest about Ostend in to-morrow’s
letter.</p>

<p class='c001'>We idled about this curious Ostend the remainder
of the afternoon and far into the long-lived twilight,
apparently to amuse ourselves, but secretly I had a
deeper motive. I wanted to see if there was anything
here that might “impress the Shah.” In the
end I was reassured and content. If Ostend could
impress him, England could amaze the head clear off
<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>his shoulders and have marvels left that not even
the trunk could be indifferent to.</p>

<p class='c001'>These citizens of Flanders--Flounders, I think they
call them, though I feel sure I have eaten a creature
of that name or seen it in an aquarium or a menagerie,
or in a picture or somewhere--are a thrifty, industrious
race, and are as commercially wise and farsighted
as they were in Edward the Third’s time,
and as enduring and patient under adversity as they
were in Charles the Bold’s. They are prolific in the
matter of children; in some of the narrow streets
every house seemed to have had a freshet of children,
which had burst through and overflowed into the
roadway. One could hardly get along for the pack
of juveniles, and they were all soiled and all healthy.
They all wore wooden shoes, which clattered noisily
on the stone pavements. All the women were hard
at work; there were no idlers about the houses.
The men were away at labor, no doubt. In nearly
every door women sat at needlework or something
of that marketable nature--they were knitting principally.
Many groups of women sat in the street,
in the shade of walls, making point lace. The lace
maker holds a sort of pillow on her knees with a strip
of cardboard fastened on it, on which the lace pattern
has been punctured. She sticks bunches of pins in
the punctures and about them weaves her web of
threads. The numberless threads diverge from the
bunch of pins like the spokes of a wheel, and the
spools from which the threads are being unwound
form the outer circle of the wheel. The woman
throws these spools about her with flying fingers, in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>and out, over and under one another, and so fast that
you can hardly follow the evolutions with your eyes.
In the chaos and confusion of skipping spools you
wonder how she can possibly pick up the right one
every time, and especially how she can go on gossiping
with her friends all the time and yet never seem
to miss a stitch. The laces these ingenious Flounders
were making were very dainty and delicate in texture
and very beautiful in design.</p>

<p class='c001'>Most of the shops in Ostend seemed devoted to
the sale of sea shells. All sorts of figures of men and
women were made of shells; one sort was composed
of grotesque and ingenious combinations of lobster
claws in the human form. And they had other
figures made of stuffed frogs--some fencing, some
barbering each other, and some were not to be
described at all without indecent language. It must
require a barbarian nature to be able to find humor
in such nauseating horrors as these last. These
things were exposed in the public windows where
young girls and little children could see them, and
in the shops sat the usual hairy-lipped young woman
waiting to sell them.</p>

<p class='c001'>There was a contrivance attached to the better
class of houses which I had heard of before, but
never seen. It was an arrangement of mirrors outside
the window, so contrived that the people within
could see who was coming either up or down the
street--see all that might be going on, in fact--without
opening the window or twisting themselves
into uncomfortable positions in order to look.</p>

<p class='c001'>A capital thing to watch for unwelcome (or welcome)
<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>visitors with, or to observe pageants in cold
or rainy weather. People in second and third stories
had, also, another mirror which showed who was
passing underneath.</p>

<p class='c001'>The dining room at our hotel was very spacious
and rather gorgeous. One end of it was composed
almost entirely of a single pane of plate glass, some
two inches thick--for this is the plate-glass manufacturing
region, you remember. It was very clear
and fine. If one were to enter the place in such a way
as not to catch the sheen of the glass, he would suppose
that the end of the house was wide open to the
sun and the storms. A strange boyhood instinct
came strongly upon me, and I could not really enjoy
my dinner, I wanted to break that glass so badly.
I have no doubt that every man feels so, and I know
that such a glass must be simply torture to a boy.</p>

<p class='c001'>This dining room’s walls were almost completely
covered with large oil paintings in frames.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was an excellent hotel; the utmost care was
taken that everything should go right. I went to
bed at ten and was called at eleven to “take the
early train.” I said I was not the one, so the servant
stirred up the next door and he was not the one;
then the next door and the next--no success--and
so on till the reverberations of the knocking were
lost in the distance down the hall, and I fell asleep
again. They called me at twelve to take another
early train, but I said I was not the one again, and
asked as a favor that they would be particular to call
the rest next time, but never mind me. However,
they could not understand my English; they only said
<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>something in reply to signify that, and then went
on banging up the boarders, none of whom desired
to take the early train.</p>

<p class='c001'>When they called me at one, it made my rest seem
very broken, and I said if they would skip me at two
I would call myself--not really intending to do it,
but hoping to beguile the porter and deceive him.
He probably suspected that and was afraid to trust
me, because when he made his rounds at that hour
he did not take any chances on me, but routed me
out along with the others. I got some more sleep
after that, but when the porter called me at three
I felt depressed and jaded and greatly discouraged.
So I gave it up and dressed myself. The porter
got me a cup of coffee and kept me awake while
I drank it. He was a good, well-meaning sort of
Flounder, but really a drawback to the hotel, I
should think.</p>

<p class='c001'>Poor Mr. Blank came in then, looking worn and
old. He had been called for all the different trains,
too, just as I had. He said it was a good enough
hotel, but they took too much pains. While we sat
there talking we fell asleep and were called again at
four. Then we went out and dozed about town till
six, and then drifted aboard the <i>Lively</i>.</p>

<p class='c001'>She was trim and bright, and clean and smart;
she was as handsome as a picture. The sailors were
in brand-new man-of-war costume, and plenty of
officers were about the decks in the state uniform
of the service--cocked hats, huge epaulettes, claw-hammer
coats lined with white silk--hats and coats
and trousers all splendid with gold lace. I judged
<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>that these were all admirals, and so got afraid and
went ashore again. Our vessel was to carry the
Shah’s brother, also the Grand Vizier, several Persian
princes, who were uncles to the Shah, and other
dignitaries of more or less consequence. A vessel
alongside was to carry the luggage, and a vessel just
ahead (the <i>Vigilant</i>) was to carry nobody but just
the Shah and certain Ministers of State and servants
and the Queen’s special ambassador, Sir Henry
Rawlinson, who is a Persian scholar and talks to the
Shah in his own tongue.</p>

<p class='c001'>I was very glad, for several reasons, to find that
I was not to go in the same ship with the Shah.
First, with him not immediately under my eye I
would feel less responsibility for him; and, secondly,
as I was anxious to impress him, I wanted to
practice on his brother first.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE SHAH’S QUARTERS</h4>

<p class='c013'>On the afterdeck of the <i>Vigilant</i>--very handsome
ship--a temporary cabin had been constructed for
the sole and special use of the Shah, temporary
but charmingly substantial and graceful and pretty.
It was about thirty feet long and twelve wide,
beautifully gilded, decorated and painted within
and without. Among its colors was a shade of
light green, which reminds me of an anecdote about
the Persian party, which I will speak of in to-morrow’s
letter.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was getting along toward the time for the Shah
to arrive from Brussels, so I ranged up alongside my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>own ship. I do not know when I ever felt so ill at
ease and undecided. It was a sealed letter which I
had brought from the Admiralty, and I could not
guess what the purport of it might be. I supposed
I was intended to command the ship--that is, I had
supposed it at first, but, after seeing all those splendid
officers, I had discarded that idea. I cogitated a
good deal, but to no purpose. Presently a regiment
of Belgian troops arrived and formed in line along
the pier. Then a number of people began to spread
down carpets for fifty yards along the pier, by the
railway track, and other carpets were laid from these
to the ships. The gangway leading on board my
ship was now carpeted and its railings were draped
with bright-colored signal flags. It began to look as
if I was expected; so I walked on board. A sailor
immediately ran and stopped me, and made another
sailor bring a mop for me to wipe my feet on, lest I
might soil the deck, which was wonderfully clean
and nice. Evidently I was not the person expected,
after all. I pointed to the group of officers and asked
the sailor what the naval law would do to a man if
he were to go and speak to some of those admirals--for
there was an awful air of etiquette and punctilio
about the premises; but just then one of those officers
came forward and said that if his instinct was correct
an Admiralty order had been received giving
me a passage in the ship; and he also said that he
was the first lieutenant, and that I was very welcome
and he would take pains to make me feel at home,
and furthermore there was champagne and soda
waiting down below; and furthermore still, all the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>London correspondents, to the number of six or
seven, would arrive from Brussels with the Shah,
and would go in our ship, and if our passage were
not a lively one, and a jolly and enjoyable one, it
would be a very strange thing indeed. I could have
jumped for joy if I had not been afraid of breaking
some rule of naval etiquette and getting hanged
for it.</p>

<p class='c001'>Now the train was signaled, and everybody got
ready for the great event. The Belgian regiment
straightened itself up, and some two hundred
Flounders arrived and took conspicuous position
on a little mound. I was a little afraid that this
would impress the Shah; but I was soon occupied
with other interests. The train of thirteen cars
came tearing in, and stopped abreast the ships.
Music and guns began an uproar. Odd-looking
Persian faces and felt hats (brimless stovepipes)
appeared at the car windows.</p>

<p class='c001'>Some gorgeous English officials fled down the
carpet from the <i>Vigilant</i>. They stopped at a long
car with the royal arms upon it, uncovered their
heads, and unlocked the car door. Then the Shah
stood up in it and gave us a good view. He was a
handsome, strong-featured man, with a rather European
fairness of complexion; had a mustache, wore
spectacles, seemed of a good height and graceful build
and carriage, and looked about forty or a shade less.
He was very simply dressed--brimless stovepipe and
close-buttoned dark-green military suit, without
ornament. No, not wholly without ornament, for
he had a band two inches wide worn over his shoulder
<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>and down across his breast, scarf fashion, which
band was one solid glory of fine diamonds.</p>

<p class='c001'>A Persian official appeared in the Shah’s rear and
enveloped him in an ample quilt--or cloak, if you
please--which was lined with fur. The outside of
it was of a whitish color and elaborately needle-worked
in Persian patterns like an India shawl.
The Shah stepped out and the official procession
formed about him and marched him down the carpet
and on board the <i>Vigilant</i> to slow music. Not a
Flounder raised a cheer. All the small fry swarmed
out of the train now.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Shah walked back alongside his fine cabin,
looking at the assemblage of silent, solemn Flounders;
the correspondent of the London <cite>Telegraph</cite> was
hurrying along the pier and took off his hat and
bowed to the “King of Kings,” and the King of
Kings gave a polite military salute in return. This
was the commencement of the excitement. The
success of the breathless <cite>Telegraph</cite> man made all the
other London correspondents mad, every man of
whom flourished his stovepipe recklessly and cheered
lustily, some of the more enthusiastic varying the
exercise by lowering their heads and elevating their
coat tails. Seeing all this, and feeling that if I was
to “impress the Shah” at all, now was my time, I
ventured a little squeaky yell, quite distinct from
the other shouts, but just as hearty. His Shahship
heard and saw and saluted me in a manner that was,
I considered, an acknowledgment of my superior importance.
I do not know that I ever felt so ostentatious
and absurd before. All the correspondents came
<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>aboard, and then the Persian baggage came also,
and was carried across to the ship alongside of ours.
When she could hold no more we took somewhere
about a hundred trunks and boxes on board our
vessel. Two boxes fell into the water, and several
sailors jumped in and saved one, but the other
was lost. However, it probably contained nothing
but a few hundred pounds of diamonds and
things.</p>

<p class='c001'>At last we got under way and steamed out through
a long slip, the piers on either side being crowded with
Flounders; but never a cheer. A battery of three
guns on the starboard pier boomed a royal salute,
and we swept out to sea, the <i>Vigilant</i> in the lead,
we right in her wake, and the baggage ship in ours.
Within fifteen minutes everybody was well acquainted;
a general jollification set in, and I was thoroughly glad
I had come over to fetch the Shah.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>II <br /> MARK TWAIN EXECUTES HIS CONTRACT AND DELIVERS <br /> THE SHAH IN LONDON</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='sc'>London</span>, <i>June 19, 1873</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<h4 class='c020'>SOME PERSIAN FINERY</h4>

<p class='c013'>Leaving Ostend, we went out to sea under a
clear sky and upon smooth water--so smooth,
indeed, that its surface was scarcely rippled. I say
the sky was clear, and so it was, clear and sunny;
but a rich haze lay upon the water in the distance--a
soft, mellow mist, through which a scattering sail
<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>or two loomed vaguely. One may call such a morning
perfect.</p>

<p class='c001'>The corps of correspondents were well jaded with
their railway journey, but after champagne and soda
downstairs with the officers, everybody came up
refreshed and cheery and exceedingly well acquainted
all around. The Persian grandees had meantime
taken up a position in a glass house on the afterdeck,
and were sipping coffee in a grave, Oriental
way. They all had much lighter complexions and
a more European cast of features than I was prepared
for, and several of them were exceedingly
handsome, fine-looking men.</p>

<p class='c001'>They all sat in a <a id='corr47.14'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='cricle'>circle</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_47.14'><ins class='correction' title='cricle'>circle</ins></a></span> on a sofa (the deckhouse
being circular), and they made a right gaudy spectacle.
Their breasts were completely crusted with
gold bullion embroidery of a pattern resembling
frayed and interlacing ferns, and they had large
jeweled ornaments on their breasts also. The Grand
Vizier came out to have a look around. In addition
to the sumptuous gold fernery on his breast he wore
a jeweled star as large as the palm of my hand, and
about his neck hung the Shah’s miniature, reposing
in a bed of diamonds, that gleamed and flashed in a
wonderful way when touched by the sunlight. It
was said that to receive the Shah’s portrait from
the Shah was the highest compliment that could be
conferred upon a Persian subject. I did not care so
much about the diamonds, but I would have liked
to have the portrait very much. The Grand Vizier’s
sword hilt and the whole back of the sheath from
end to end were composed of a neat and simple
<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>combination of some twelve or fifteen thousand
emeralds and diamonds.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>“IMPRESSING” A PERSIAN GENERAL</h4>

<p class='c013'>Several of the Persians talked French and English.
One of them, who was said to be a general, came up
on the bridge where some of us were standing, pointed
to a sailor, and asked me if I could tell him what
that sailor was doing?</p>

<p class='c001'>I said he was communicating with the other ships
by means of the optical telegraph--that by using
the three sticks the whole alphabet could be
expressed. I showed him how A, B and C were
made, and so forth. Good! This Persian was
“impressed”! He showed it by his eyes, by his
gestures, by his manifest surprise and delight. I
said to myself, if the Shah were only here now, the
grand desire of Great Britain could be accomplished.
The general immediately called the other grandees
and told them about this telegraphic wonder. Then
he said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Now does everyone on board acquire this
knowledge?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“No, only the officers.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“And this sailor?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“He is only the signalman. Two or three sailors
on board are detailed for this service, and by order
and direction of the officers they communicate with
the other ships.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Very good! very fine! Very great indeed!”</p>

<p class='c001'>These men were unquestionably impressed. I got
<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>the sailor to bring the signal book, and the matter
was fully explained, to their high astonishment;
also the flag signals, and likewise the lamp signals
for night telegraphing. Of course, the idea came
into my head, in the first place, to ask one of the
officers to conduct this bit of instruction, but I at
once dismissed it. I judged that this would all go
to the Shah, sooner or later. I had come over on
purpose to “impress the Shah,” and I was not going
to throw away my opportunity. I wished the Queen
had been there; I would have been knighted, sure.
You see, they knight people here for all sorts of
things--knight them, or put them into the peerage
and make great personages of them. Now, for
instance, a king comes over here on a visit; the Lord
Mayor and sheriffs do him becoming honors in the
city, and straightway the former is created a baronet
and the latter are knighted. When the Prince of
Wales recovered from his illness one of his chief
physicians was made a baronet and the other was
knighted. Charles II made duchesses of one or two
female acquaintances of his for something or other--I
have forgotten now what it was. A London shoe-maker’s
apprentice became a great soldier--indeed,
a Wellington--won prodigious victories in many
climes and covered the British arms with glory all
through a long life; and when he was 187 years old
they knighted him and made him Constable of the
Tower. But he died next year and they buried him
in Westminster Abbey. There is no telling what
that man might have become if he had lived. So
you see what a chance I had; for I have no doubt in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>the world that I have been the humble instrument,
under Providence, of “impressing the Shah.” And
I really believe that if the Queen comes to hear of
it I shall be made a duke.</p>

<p class='c001'>Friends intending to write will not need to be
reminded that a duke is addressed as “Your Grace”;
it is considered a great offense to leave that off.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>A PICTURESQUE NAVAL SPECTACLE</h4>

<p class='c013'>When we were a mile or so out from Ostend conversation
ceased, an expectant look came into all
faces, and opera glasses began to stand out from
above all noses. This impressive hush lasted a few
minutes, and then some one said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“There they are!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Where?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Away yonder ahead--straight ahead.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Which was true. Three huge shapes smothered
in the haze--the <i>Vanguard</i>, the <i>Audacious</i>, and the
<i>Devastation</i>--all great ironclads. They were to do
escort duty. The officers and correspondents gathered
on the forecastle and waited for the next act.
A red spout of fire issued from the <i>Vanguard’s</i> side,
another flashed from the <i>Audacious</i>. Beautiful these
red tongues were against the dark haze. Then there
was a long pause--ever so long a pause and not a
sound, not the suspicion of a sound; and now, out
of the stillness, came a deep, solemn “boom! boom!”
It had not occurred to me that at so great a distance
I would not hear the report as soon as I saw the
flash. The two crimson jets were very beautiful,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>but not more so than the rolling volumes of white
smoke that plunged after them, rested a moment
over the water, and then went wreathing and curling
up among the webbed rigging and the tall masts,
and left only glimpses of these things visible, high
up in the air, projecting as if from a fog.</p>

<p class='c001'>Now the flashes came thick and fast from the
black sides of both vessels. The muffled thunders
of the guns mingled together in one continued roll,
the two ships were lost to sight, and in their places
two mountains of tumbled smoke rested upon the
motionless water, their bases in the hazy twilight
and their summits shining in the sun. It was good
to be there and see so fine a spectacle as that.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE NAVAL SALUTE</h4>

<p class='c013'>We closed up fast upon the ironclads. They fell
apart to let our flotilla come between, and as the
<i>Vigilant</i> ranged up the rigging of the ironclads was
manned to salute the Shah. And, indeed, that was
something to see. The shrouds, from the decks clear
to the trucks, away up toward the sky, were black
with men. On the lower rounds of these rope ladders
they stood five abreast, holding each other’s hands,
and so the tapering shrouds formed attenuated
pyramids of humanity, six pyramids of them towering
into the upper air, and clear up on the top of
each dizzy mast stood a little creature like a clothes
pin--a mere black peg against the sky--and that
mite was a sailor waving a flag like a postage stamp.
All at once the pyramids of men burst into a cheer,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>and followed it with two more, given with a will;
and if the Shah was not impressed he must be the
offspring of a mummy.</p>

<p class='c001'>And just at this moment, while we all stood there
gazing---</p>

<p class='c001'>However breakfast was announced and I did not
wait to see.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE THIRTY-FOUR-TON GUNS SPEAK</h4>

<p class='c013'>If there is one thing that is pleasanter than another
it is to take breakfast in the wardroom with a dozen
naval officers. Of course, that awe-inspiring monarch,
the captain, is aft, keeping frozen state with the
Grand Viziers when there are any on board, and so
there is nobody in the wardroom to maintain naval
etiquette. As a consequence none is maintained.
One officer, in a splendid uniform, snatches a champagne
bottle from a steward and opens it himself;
another keeps the servants moving; another opens
soda; everybody eats, drinks, shouts, laughs in the
most unconstrained way, and it does seem a pity
that ever the thing should come to an end. No
individual present seemed sorry he was not in the
ship with the Shah. When the festivities had been
going on about an hour, some tremendous booming
was heard outside. Now here was a question between
duty and broiled chicken. What might that booming
mean? Anguish sat upon the faces of the correspondents.
I watched to see what they would do,
and the precious moments were flying. Somebody
cried down a companionway:</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>“The <i>Devastation</i> is saluting!”</p>

<p class='c001'>The correspondents tumbled over one another,
over chairs, over everything in their frenzy to get
on deck, and the last gun reverberated as the last
heel disappeared on the stairs. The <i>Devastation</i>, the
pride of England, the mightiest war vessel afloat,
carrying guns that outweigh any metal in any
service, it is said (thirty-five tons each), and these
boys had missed that spectacle--at least I knew
that some of them had. I did not go. Age has
taught me wisdom. If a spectacle is going to be
particularly imposing I prefer to see it through
somebody else’s eyes, because that man will always
exaggerate. Then I can exaggerate his exaggeration,
and my account of the thing will be the most
impressive.</p>

<p class='c001'>But I felt that I had missed my figure this time,
because I was not sure which of these gentlemen
reached the deck in time for a glimpse and which
didn’t. And this morning I cannot tell by the
London papers. They all have imposing descriptions
of that thing, and no one of them resembles
another. Mr. X’s is perhaps the finest, but he was
singing a song about “Spring, Spring, Gentle Spring,”
all through the bombardment, and was overexcited,
I fear.</p>

<p class='c001'>The next best was Mr. Y’s; but he was telling
about how he took a Russian battery, along with
another man, during the Crimean War, and he was
not fairly through the story till the salute was over,
though I remember he went up and saw the smoke.
I will not frame a description of the <i>Devastation’s</i>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>salute, for I have no material that I can feel sure
is reliable.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE GRAND SPECTACULAR CLIMAX</h4>

<p class='c013'>When we first sailed away from Ostend I found
myself in a dilemma; I had no notebook. But
“any port in a storm,” as the sailors say. I found
a fair, full pack of ordinary playing cards in my
overcoat pocket--one always likes to have something
along to amuse children with--and really
they proved excellent to take notes on, although
bystanders were a bit inclined to poke fun at
them and ask facetious questions. But I was content;
I made all the notes I needed. The aces and
low “spot” cards are very good indeed to write
memoranda on, but I will not recommend the
Kings and Jacks.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>SPEAKING BY THE CARDS</h4>

<p class='c013'>Referring to the seven of hearts, I find that
this naval exhibition and journey from Ostend to
Dover is going to cost the government £500,000.
Got it from a correspondent. It is a round
sum.</p>

<p class='c001'>Referring to the ace of diamonds, I find that along
in the afternoon we sighted a fresh fleet of men-of-war
coming to meet us. The rest of the diamonds,
down to the eight spot (nines and tens are no
good for notes) are taken up with details of that
spectacle. Most of the clubs and hearts refer to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>matters immediately following that, but I really
can hardly do anything with them because I
have forgotten what was trumps.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE SPECTACLE</h4>

<p class='c013'>But never mind. The sea scene grew little by
little, until presently it was very imposing. We
drew up into the midst of a waiting host of vessels.
Enormous five-masted men-of-war, great turret ships,
steam packets, pleasure yachts--every sort of craft,
indeed--the sea was thick with them; the yards and
riggings of the warships loaded with men, the packets
crowded with people, the pleasure ships rainbowed
with brilliant flags all over and over--some with
flags strung thick on lines stretching from bowsprit
to foremast, thence to mainmast, thence to mizzenmast,
and thence to stern. All the ships were in
motion--gliding hither and thither, in and out,
mingling and parting--a bewildering whirl of flash
and color. Our leader, the vast, black, ugly, but
very formidable <i>Devastation</i>, plowed straight through
the gay throng, our Shah-ships following, the lines
of big men-of-war saluting, the booming of the guns
drowning the cheering, stately islands of smoke
towering everywhere. And so, in this condition of
unspeakable grandeur, we swept into the harbor of
Dover, and saw the English princes and the long
ranks of red-coated soldiers waiting on the pier,
civilian multitudes behind them, the lofty hill
front by the castle swarming with spectators, and
there was the crash of cannon and a general hurrah
<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>all through the air. It was rather a contrast
to silent Ostend and the unimpressible Flanders.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE SHAH “IMPRESSED” AT LAST</h4>

<p class='c013'>The Duke of Edinburgh and Prince Arthur received
the Shah in state, and then all of us--princes, Shahs,
ambassadors, Grand Viziers and newspaper correspondents--climbed
aboard the train and started off
to London just like so many brothers.</p>

<p class='c001'>From Dover to London it was a sight to see.
Seventy miles of human beings in a jam--the gaps
were not worth mentioning--and every man, woman,
and child waving hat or handkerchief and cheering.
I wondered--could not tell--could not be sure--could
only wonder--would this “impress the Shah”?
I would have given anything to know. But--well,
it ought--but--still one could not tell.</p>

<p class='c001'>And by and by we burst into the London Railway
station--a very large station it is--and found it
wonderfully decorated and all the neighboring streets
packed with cheering citizens. Would this impress
the Shah? I--I--well, I could not yet feel certain.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Prince of Wales received the Shah--ah, you
should have seen how gorgeously the Shah was
dressed now--he was like the sun in a total eclipse
of rainbows--yes, the Prince received him, put him
in a grand open carriage, got in and made him
sit over further and not “crowd,” the carriage clattered
out of the station, all London fell apart on
either side and lifted a perfectly national cheer,
and just at that instant the bottom fell out of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>the sky and forty deluges came pouring down at
once!</p>

<p class='c001'>The great strain was over, the crushing suspense
at an end. I said, “Thank God, this will impress
the Shah.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Now came the long files of Horse Guards in silver
armor. We took the great Persian to Buckingham
Palace. I never stirred till I saw the gates open
and close upon him with my own eyes and knew he
was there. Then I said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“England, here is your Shah; take him and be
happy, but don’t ever ask me to fetch over another
one.”</p>

<p class='c001'>This contract has been pretty straining on me.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>III <br /> THE SHAH AS A SOCIAL STAR</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='sc'>London</span>, <i>June 21, 1873</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c011'>After delivering the Shah at the gates of that
unsightly pile of dreary grandeur known as
Buckingham Palace I cast all responsibility for him
aside for the time being, and experienced a sense of
relief and likewise an honest pride in my success,
such as no man can feel who has not had a Shah at
nurse (so to speak) for three days.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is said by those who ought to know that when
Buckingham Palace was being fitted up as a home
for the Shah one of the chief rooms was adorned
with a rich carpet which had been designed and
manufactured especially to charm the eye of His
Majesty. The story goes on to say that a couple of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>the Persian suite came here a week ago to see that
all things were in readiness and nothing overlooked,
and that when they reached that particular room
and glanced at the lovely combination of green
figures and white ones in that carpet they gathered
their robes carefully up about their knees and then
went elaborately tiptoeing about the floor with the
aspect and anxiety of a couple of cats hunting for
dry ground in a wet country, and they stepped only
on the white figures and almost fainted whenever
they came near touching a green one. It is said that
the explanation is that these visiting Persians are
all Mohammedans, and green being a color sacred
to the descendants of the Prophet, and none of these
people being so descended, it would be dreadful
profanation for them to defile the holy color with
their feet. And the general result of it all was that
carpet had to be taken up and is a dead loss.</p>

<p class='c001'>Man is a singular sort of human being, after all,
and his religion does not always adorn him. Now,
our religion is the right one, and has fewer odd and
striking features than any other; and yet my
ancestors used to roast Catholics and witches and
warm their hands by the fire; but they would be
blanched with horror at the bare thought of breaking
the Sabbath, and here is a Persian monarch who
never sees any impropriety in chopping a subject’s
head off for the mere misdemeanor of calling him
too early for breakfast, and yet would be consumed
with pious remorse if unheeding foot were to chance
to step upon anything so green as you or I, my
reader.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>Oriental peoples say that women have no souls
to save and, almost without my memory, many
American Protestants said the same of babies. I
thought there was a wide gulf between the Persians
and ourselves, but I begin to feel that they are
really our brothers after all.</p>

<p class='c001'>After a day’s rest the Shah went to Windsor
Castle and called on the Queen. What that suggests
to the reader’s mind is this:--That the Shah took
a hand satchel and an umbrella, called a cab and
said he wanted to go to the Paddington station;
that when he arrived there the driver charged him
sixpence too much, and he paid it rather than have
trouble; that he tried now to buy a ticket, and was
answered by a ticket seller as surly as a hotel clerk
that he was not selling tickets for that train yet;
that he finally got his ticket, and was beguiled of
his satchel by a railway porter at once, who put it
into a first-class carriage and got a sixpence, which
the company forbids him to receive; that presently
when the guard (or conductor) of the train came
along the Shah slipped a shilling into his hand and
said he wanted to smoke, and straightway the guard
signified that it was all right; that when the Shah
arrived at Windsor Castle he rang the bell, and when
the girl came to the door asked her if the Queen was
at home, and she left him standing in the hall and
went to see; that by and by she returned and said
would he please sit down in the front room and Mrs.
Guelph would be down directly; that he hung his
hat on the hatrack, stood his umbrella up in the
corner, entered the front room and sat down on a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>haircloth chair; that he waited and waited and got
tired; that he got up and examined the old piano,
the depressing lithographs on the walls and the
album of photographs of faded country relatives
on the center table, and was just about to fall
back on the family Bible when the Queen entered
briskly and begged him to sit down and apologized
for keeping him waiting, but she had just got a
new girl and everything was upside down, and so
forth and so on; but how are the family, and
when did he arrive, and how long should he stay
and why didn’t he bring his wife. I knew that
that was the picture which would spring up in the
American reader’s mind when it was said the Shah
went to visit the Queen, because that was the
picture which the announcement suggested to
my own mind.</p>

<p class='c001'>But it was far from the facts, very far. Nothing
could be farther. In truth, these people made as
much of a to do over a mere friendly call as anybody
else would over a conflagration. There were
special railway trains for the occasion; there was
a general muster of princes and dukes to go along,
each one occupying room 40; there were regiments
of cavalry to clear the way; railway stations
were turned into flower gardens, sheltered with
flags and all manner of gaudy splendor; there were
multitudes of people to look on over the heads of
interminable ranks of policemen standing shoulder
to shoulder and facing front; there was braying of
music and booming of cannon. All that fuss, in
sober truth, over a mere off-hand friendly call.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>Imagine what it would have been if he had brought
another shirt and was going to stay a month.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>AT THE GUILDHALL</h4>

<p class='c013'>Truly, I am like to suffocate with astonishment
at the things that are going on around me here. It
is all odd, it is all queer enough, I can tell you;
but last night’s work transcends anything I ever
heard of in the way of--well, how shall I express it?
how can I word it? I find it awkward to get at it.
But to say it in a word--and it is a true one, too, as
hundreds and hundreds of people will testify--last
night the Corporation of the City of London, with a
simplicity and ignorance which almost rise to sublimity,
actually gave a ball to a Shah who does not
dance. If I would allow myself to laugh at a cruel
mistake, this would start me. It is the oddest thing
that has happened since I have had charge of the
Shah. There is some excuse for it in the fact that the
Aldermen of London are simply great and opulent
merchants, and cannot be expected to know much
about the ways of high life--but then they could
have asked some of us who have been with the Shah.</p>

<p class='c001'>The ball was a marvel in its way. The historical
Guildhall was a scene of great magnificence. There
was a high dais at one end, on which were three
state chairs under a sumptuous canopy; upon the
middle one sat the Shah, who was almost a Chicago
conflagration of precious stones and gold bullion
lace. Among other gems upon his breast were a
number of emeralds of marvelous size, and from
<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>a loop hung an historical diamond of great size
and wonderful beauty. On the right of the Shah
sat the Princess of Wales, and on his left the wife
of the Crown Prince of Russia. Grouped about
the three stood a full jury of minor princes,
princesses, and ambassadors hailing from many
countries.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE TWO CORRALS</h4>

<p class='c013'>The immense hall was divided in the middle by a
red rope. The Shah’s division was sacred to blue
blood, and there was breathing room there; but the
other corral was but a crush of struggling and perspiring
humanity. The place was brilliant with gas
and was a rare spectacle in the matter of splendid
costumes and rich coloring. The lofty stained-glass
windows, pictured with celebrated episodes in the
history of the ancient city, were lighted from the
outside, and one may imagine the beauty of the effect.
The great giants, Gog and Magog (whose origin and
history, curiously enough, are unknown even to
tradition), looked down from the lofty gallery, but
made no observation. Down the long sides of the
hall, with but brief spaces between, were imposing
groups of marble statuary; and, contrasted with the
masses of life and color about them, they made a
picturesque effect. The groups were statues (in
various attitudes) of the Duke of Wellington. I do
not say this knowingly, but only supposingly; but
I never have seen a statue in England yet that
represented anybody but the Duke of Wellington,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>and, as for the streets and terraces and courts and
squares that are named after him or after selections
from his 797 titles, they are simply beyond the
grasp of arithmetic. This reminds me that, having
named everything after Wellington that there was
left to name in England (even down to Wellington
boots), our British brothers, still unsatisfied, still
oppressed with adulation, blandly crossed over
and named our Californian big trees Wellington,
and put it in Latin at that. They did that, calmly
ignoring the fact that we, the discoverers and owners
of the trees, had long ago named them after a larger
man. However, if the ghost of Wellington enjoys
such a proceeding, possibly the ghost of Washington
will not greatly trouble itself about the matter. But
what really disturbs me is that, while Wellington is
justly still in the fashion here, Washington is fading
out of the fashion with us. It is not a good sign. The
idols we have raised in his stead are not to our
honor.</p>

<p class='c001'>Some little dancing was done in the sacred corral
in front of the Shah by grandees belonging mainly
to “grace-of-God” families, but he himself never
agitated a foot. The several thousand commoner
people on the other side of the rope could not dance
any more than sardines in a box. Chances to view
the Guildhall spectacle were so hungered for that
people offered £5 for the privilege of standing three
minutes in the musicians’ gallery and were refused.
I cannot convey to you an idea of the inordinate
desire which prevails here to see the Shah better than
by remarking that speculators who held four-seat
<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>opera boxes at Covent Garden Theater to-night
were able to get $250 for them. Had all the seats
been sold at auction the opera this evening would
have produced not less than one hundred and twenty-five
thousand dollars in gold! I am below the figures
rather than above them. The greatest house (for
money) that America ever saw was gathered together
upon the occasion of Jenny Lind’s first concert at
Castle Garden. The seats were sold at auction and
produced something over twenty thousand dollars.</p>

<p class='c001'>I am by no means trying to describe the Guildhall
affair of last night. Such a crush of titled swells;
such a bewildering array of jeweled uniforms and
brilliant feminine costumes; such solemn and awful
reception ceremonies in the library; such grim and
stately imposing addresses and Persian replies; such
imposing processional pageantry later on; such depressing
dancing before the apathetic Shah; such
ornate tables and imperial good cheer at the banquet--it
makes a body tired to merely think of trying
to put all that on paper. Perhaps you, sir, will be
good enough to imagine it, and thus save one who
respects you and honors you five columns of solid
writing.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE LUNATIC ASYLUM IS BLESSED WITH A GLIMPSE</h4>

<p class='c013'>As regards the momentous occasion of the opera,
this evening, I found myself in a grievous predicament,
for a republican. The tickets were all sold
long ago, so I must either go as a member of the
royal family or not at all. After a good deal of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>reflection it seemed best not to mix up with that
class lest a political significance might be put upon
it. But a queer arrangement had been devised
whereby I might have a glimpse of the show, and I
took advantage of that. There is an immense barn-like
glass house attached to the rear of the theater,
and that was fitted up with seats, carpets, mirrors,
gas, columns, flowers, garlands, and a meager row
of shrubs strung down the sides on brackets--to
create an imposing forest effect, I suppose. The
place would seat ten or twelve hundred people. All
but a hundred paid a dollar and a quarter a seat--for
what? To look at the Shah three quarters of a
minute, while he walked through to enter the theater.
The remaining hundred paid $11 a seat for the same
privilege, with the added luxury of rushing on the
stage and glancing at the opera audience for one
single minute afterward, while the chorus sung “God
Save the Queen!” We are all gone mad, I do believe.
Eleven hundred five-shilling lunatics and a hundred
two-guinea maniacs. The <cite>Herald</cite> purchased a ticket
and created me one of the latter, along with two or
three more of the staff.</p>

<p class='c001'>Our cab was about No. 17,342 in the string that
worked its slow way through London and past the
theater. The Shah was not to come till nine o’clock,
and yet we had to be at the theater by half past six,
or we would not get into the glass house at all, they
said. We were there on time, and seated in a small
gallery which overlooked a very brilliantly dressed
throng of people. Every seat was occupied. We
sat there two hours and a half gazing and melting.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>The wide, red-carpeted central aisle below offered
good display ground for officials in fine uniforms,
and they made good use of it.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>ROYALTY ARRIVES</h4>

<p class='c013'>By and by a band in showy uniform came in and
stood opposite the entrance. At the end of a tedious
interval of waiting trumpets sounded outside, there
was some shouting, the band played half of “God
Save the Queen,” and then the Duke and Duchess
of Cambridge and a dozen gorgeous Persian officials
entered. After a little the young Prince Arthur
came, in a blue uniform, with a whole broadside of
gold and silver medals on his breast--for good
behavior, punctuality, accurate spelling, penmanship,
etc., I suppose, but I could not see the inscriptions.
The band gave him some bars of “God Save
the Queen,” too, while he stood under us talking,
with altogether unroyal animation, with the Persians--the
crowd of people staring hungrily at him the
while--country cousins, maybe, who will go home
and say, “I was as close to him as I am to that chair
this minute.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Then came the Duke of Teck and the Princess
Mary, and the band God-Save-the-Queen’d them
also. Now came the Prince of Wales and the Russian
Tsarina--the royal anthem again, with an extra
blast at the end of it. After them came a young,
handsome, mighty giant, in showy uniform, his
breast covered with glittering orders, and a general’s
chapeau, with a flowing white plume, in his hand--the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>heir to all the throne of all the Russias. The
band greeted him with the Russian national anthem,
and played it clear through. And they did right; for
perhaps it is not risking too much to say that this
is the only national air in existence that is really
worthy of a great nation.</p>

<p class='c001'>And at last came the long-expected millennium
himself, His Imperial Majesty the Shah, with the
charming Princess of Wales on his arm. He had all
his jewels on, and his diamond shaving brush in his
hat front. He shone like a window with the westering
sun on it.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>WHAT THE ASYLUM SAW</h4>

<p class='c013'>The small space below us was full now--it could
accommodate no more royalty. The august procession
filed down the aisle in double rank, the Shah
and the Princess of Wales in the lead, and cheers
broke forth and a waving of handkerchiefs as the
Princess passed--all said this demonstration was
meant for her. As the procession disappeared
through the farther door, the hundred eleven-dollar
maniacs rushed through a small aperture, then
through an anteroom, and gathered in a flock on
the stage, the chorus striking up “God Save the
Queen” at the same moment.</p>

<p class='c001'>We stood in a mighty bandbox, or a Roman
coliseum, with a sea of faces stretching far away
over the ground floor, and above them rose five
curving tiers of gaudy humanity, the dizzy upper
tier in the far distance rising sharply up against the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>roof, like a flower garden trying to hold an earthquake
down and not succeeding. It was a magnificent
spectacle, and what with the roaring of the
chorus, the waving of handkerchiefs, the cheering
of the people, the blazing gas, and the awful splendor
of the long file of royalty, standing breast to breast
in the royal box, it was wonderfully exhilarating,
not to say exciting.</p>

<p class='c001'>The chorus sang only three-quarters of a minute--one
stanza--and down came the huge curtain and
shut out the fairyland. And then all those eleven-dollar
people hunted their way out again.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>A NATION DEMENTED</h4>

<p class='c013'>We are certainly gone mad. We scarcely look at
the young colossus who is to reign over 70,000,000
of people and the mightiest empire in extent which
exists to-day. We have no eyes but for this splendid
barbarian, who is lord over a few deserts and a
modest ten million of ragamuffins--a man who has
never done anything to win our gratitude or excite
our admiration, except that he managed to starve
a million of his subjects to death in twelve months.
If he had starved the rest I suppose we would set
up a monument to him now.</p>

<p class='c001'>The London theaters are almost absolutely empty
these nights. Nobody goes, hardly. The managers
are being ruined. The streets for miles are crammed
with people waiting whole long hours for a chance
glimpse of the Shah. I never saw any man “draw”
like this one.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>Is there any truth in the report that your bureaus
are trying to get the Shah to go over there and
lecture? He could get $100,000 a night here and
choose his own subject.</p>

<p class='c001'>I know a showman who has got a pill that belonged
to him, and which for some reason he did not take.
That showman will not take any money for that pill.
He is going to travel with it. And let me tell you
he will get more engagements than he can fill in a
year.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>IV <br />MARK TWAIN HOOKS THE PERSIAN OUT OF <br />THE ENGLISH CHANNEL</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='sc'>London</span>, <i>June 26, 1873</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>I suppose I am the only member of the Shah’s
family who is not wholly broken down and worn
out; and, to tell the truth, there is not much of me
left. If you have ever been limited to four days in
Paris or Rome or Jerusalem and been “rushed” by
a guide you can form a vague, far-away sort of conception
of what the Shah and the rest of us have
endured during these late momentous days. If this
goes on we may as well get ready for the imperial
inquest.</p>

<p class='c001'>When I was called at five o’clock the other morning
to go to Portsmouth, and remembered that the
Shah’s incessant movements had left me only three
hours’ sleep that night, nothing but a sense of duty
drove me forth. A cab could not be found, nor a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>carriage in all London. I lost an hour and a half
waiting and trying, then started on foot and lost
my way; consequently I missed one train by a
good while, another one by three minutes, and then
had more than half an hour to spare before another
would go. Most people had had a similar experience,
and there was comfort in that. We started at last,
and were more than three hours going seventy-two
miles. We stopped at no stations, hardly, but we
halted every fifteen minutes out in the woods and
fields for no purpose that we could discover. Never
was such an opportunity to look at scenery. There
were five strangers in our car, or carriage, as the
English call it, and by degrees their English reserve
thawed out and they passed around their sherry
and sandwiches and grew sociable.</p>

<p class='c001'>One of them had met the Russian General of
Police in St. Petersburg, and found him a queer old
simple-hearted soldier, proud of his past and devoted
to his master, the present Tsar, and to the memory
of his predecessor, Nicholas. The English gentleman
gave an instance of the old man’s simplicity which
one would not expect in a chief of police. The
general had been visiting London and been greatly
impressed by two things there--the admirable police
discipline and the museum. It transpired that the
museum he referred to was not that mighty collection
of marvels known to all the world as the British
Museum, but Mme. Toussaud’s Waxworks Show;
and in this waxwork show he had seen a figure of
the Emperor Nicholas. And did it please him? Yes,
as to the likeness; for it was a good likeness and a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>commanding figure; but--“<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>Mon Dieu!</i></span> try to fancy
it, m’sieu--dressed in the uniform of a simple colonel
of infantry!--the great Nicholas of Russia, my
august late master, dressed in a colonel’s uniform!”</p>

<p class='c001'>The old general could not abide that. He went
to the proprietor and remonstrated against this
wanton indignity. The proprietor was grieved;
but it was the only Russian uniform he could get,
and----</p>

<p class='c001'>“Say no more!” said the general. “May I get
you one?”</p>

<p class='c001'>The proprietor would be most happy. The general
lost not a moment; he wrote <a id='corr71.13'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='it'>at</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_71.13'><ins class='correction' title='it'>at</ins></a></span> once to the Emperor
Alexander, describing with anguish the degradation
which the late great Nicholas was suffering day by
day through his infamously clothed waxen representative,
and imploring His Majesty to send suitable
raiment for the imperial dummy, and also a
letter to authenticate the raiment. And out of
regard for the old servant and respect for his
outraged feelings the Emperor of all the Russias
descended from his Alpine altitude to send to the
Toussaud waxwork the general’s uniform worn last
by his father, and to write with his own hand an
authenticating letter to go with it. So the simple-hearted
police chief was happy once more, and never
once thought of charging the “museum” $10,000
for these valuable additions to the show, which he
might easily have done, and collected the money,
too. How like our own chiefs of police this good
old soul is!</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>Another of these English gentlemen told an anecdote,
which, he said, was old, but which I had not
heard before. He said that one day St. Peter and
the devil chanced to be thrown together, and found
it pretty dull trying to pass the time. Finally they
got to throwing dice for a lawyer. The devil threw
sixes. Then St. Peter threw sixes. The devil threw
sixes again. St. Peter threw sixes again. The devil
threw sixes once more. Then St. Peter threw sevens,
and the devil said, “Oh, come now, Your Honor,
cheat fair. None of your playing miracles here!”
I thought there was a nice bit of humor in that
suggestion to “cheat fair.”</p>

<h4 class='c020'>A SMALL PRIVATE NAUTICAL RACE</h4>

<p class='c013'>I am getting to Portsmouth about as fast in this
letter as I did in that train. The Right Honorable
the Mayor of Portsmouth had had a steamer placed
at his disposal by the Admiralty, and he had invited
the Lord Mayor of London and other guests to go
in her. This was the ship I was to sail in, and she
was to leave her pier at 9 <span class='fss'>A.M.</span> sharp. I arrived at
that pier at ten minutes to eleven exactly. There
was one chance left, however. The ship had stopped
for something and was floating at ease about a mile
away.</p>

<p class='c001'>A rusty, decayed, little two-oared skiff, the size
of a bathtub, came floating by, with a fisherman and
his wife and child in it. I entreated the man to
come in and take me to the ship. Presently he consented
and started toward me. I stood impatient
<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>and all ready to jump the moment he should get
within thirty yards of me; he halted at the distance
of thirty-five and said it would be a long pull; did I
think I could pay him two shillings for it, seeing it was
a holiday? All this palaver and I in such a state
of mind! I jumped aboard and told him to rush,
which he did; at least he threw his whole heart into
his little, useless oars, and we moved off at the rate
of a mile a week. This was solid misery. When
we had gone a hundred and nine feet and were gaining
on the tenth a long, trim, graceful man-of-war’s
boat came flying by, bound for the flagship. Without
expecting even the courtesy of a response, I
hailed and asked the coxswain to take me to the
mayor’s vessel. He said, “Certainly, sir!--ease her,
boys!” I could not have been more astonished at
anything in the world. I quickly gave my man his
two shillings, and he started to pull me to the boat.
Then there was a movement of discontent among
the sailors, and they seemed about to move on. I
thought--well, you are not such generous fellows,
after all, as I took you to be, or so polite, either; but
just then the coxswain hailed and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“The boys don’t mind the pull, and they’re perfectly
willing to take you, but they say they ain’t
willing to take the fisherman’s job away from
him.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Now that was genuine manliness and right conduct.
I shall always remember that honorable act.
I told them the fisherman was already paid, and I
was in their boat the next moment. Then ensued
the real fun of the day, as far as I was personally
<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>concerned. The boys glanced over their shoulders
to measure the distance, and then at the order to
“Give way!” they bent to it and the boat sped
through the water like an arrow. We passed all kinds
of craft and steadily shortened the distance that
lay between us and the ship. Presently the coxswain
said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“No use! Her wheels have begun to turn over.
Lively now, lively!”</p>

<p class='c001'>Then we flew. We watched the ship’s movement
with a sharp interest and calculated our chances.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Can you steer?” said the coxswain.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Can a duck swim?” said I.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Good--we’ll make her yet!”</p>

<p class='c001'>I took the helm and he the stroke oar, and that
one oar did appear to add a deal to that boat’s speed.
The ship was turning around to go out to sea, and
she did seem to turn unnecessarily fast, too; but
just as she was pointed right and both her wheels
began to go ahead our boat’s bow touched her companionway
and I was aboard. It was a handsome
race, and very exciting. If I could have had that
dainty boat and those eight white-shirted, blue-trousered
sailors for the day I would not have gone
in any ship, but would have gone about in vast
naval style and experienced the feelings of an
admiral.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>OLD HISTORICAL MEN-OF-WAR</h4>

<p class='c013'>Our ship sailed out through a narrow way, bordered
by piers that swarmed with people, and likewise
by prodigious men-of-war of the fashion of a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>hundred years ago. There were, perhaps, a dozen
of the stately veterans, these relics of an historic
past; and not looking aged and seedy, either, but
as bright and fresh as if they had been launched and
painted yesterday. They were the noblest creatures
to look upon; hulls of huge proportion and great
length; four long tiers of cannon grinning from their
tall sides; vast sterns that towered into the air like
the gable end of a church; graceful bows and figureheads;
masts as trim and lofty as spires--surely no
spectacle could be so imposing as a sea fight in the
old times, when such beautiful and such lordly ships
as these ruled the seas. And how it must have
stirred the heart of England when a fleet of them
used to come sailing in from victory, with ruined
sides and tattered spars and sails, while bells and
cannon pealed a welcome!</p>

<p class='c001'>One of the grandest of these veterans was the
very one upon whose deck Nelson himself fell in
the moment of triumph. I suppose England would
rather part with ten colonies than with that illustrious
old ship. We passed along within thirty steps
of her, and I was just trying to picture in my mind
the tremendous scenes that had transpired upon her
deck upon that day, the proudest in England’s
naval history, when the venerable craft, stirred by
the boom of saluting cannon, perhaps, woke up
out of her long sleep and began to vomit smoke
and thunder herself, and then she looked her own
natural self again, and no doubt the spirit of Nelson
was near. Still it would have been pleasanter to be on
her decks than in front of her guns; for, as the white
<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>volumes of smoke burst in our faces, one could not help
feeling that a ball might by accident have got mixed
up with a blank cartridge, and might chip just enough
off the upper end of a man to disfigure him for life;
and, besides, the powder they use in cannon is in
grains as large as billiard chalks, and it does not
all explode--suppose a few should enter one’s system?
The crash and roar of these great guns was
as unsettling a sound as I have ever heard at short
range. I took off my hat and acknowledged the
salute, of course, though it seemed to me that it
would have been better manners if they had
saluted the Lord Mayor, inasmuch as he was on
board.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE WORLD’S GREATEST NAVY ON VIEW</h4>

<p class='c013'>We went out to the Spithead and sailed up and
down there for four hours through four long ranks
of stately men-of-war--formidable ironclads they
were--the most insignificant of which would make
a breakfast of a whole fleet of Nelson’s prodigious
ships and still be hungry. The show was very fine,
for there were forty-nine of the finest ironclads the
world can show, and many gunboats besides. Indeed,
here in its full strength was the finest navy in the
world, and this the only time in history that just
such a spectacle has been seen, and none who saw
it that day is likely to live long enough to see its like
again. The vessels were all dressed out with flags,
and all about them frolicked a bewildering host of
bannered yachts, steamers, and every imaginable sort
of craft. It would be hard to contrive a gayer scene.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>One of the royal yachts came flying along presently
and put the Shah on board one of the ironclads, and
then the yards of the whole fleet were manned
simultaneously, and such another booming and bellowing
of great guns ensued as I cannot possibly
describe. Within two minutes the huge fleet was
swallowed up in smoke, with angry red tongues of
fire darting through it here and there. It was wonderful
to look upon. Every time the <i>Devastation</i>
let off one of her thirty-five-ton guns it seemed as
if an entire London fog issued from her side, and
the report was so long coming that if she were to
shoot a man he would be dead before he heard it,
and would probably go around wondering through
all eternity what it was that happened to him. I
returned to London in a great hurry by a train that
was in no way excited by it, but failed in the end
and object I had in view after all, which was to
go to the grand concert at Albert Hall in honor
of the Shah. I had a strong desire to see that
building filled with people once. Albert Hall is one
of the many monuments erected to the memory
of the late Prince Albert. It is a huge and costly
edifice, but the architectural design is old, not to
say in some sense a plagiarism; for there is but little
originality in putting a dome on a gasometer. It
is said to seat 13,000 people, and surely that is a
thing worth seeing--at least to a man who was not
at the Boston Jubilee. But no tickets were to be
had--every seat was full, they said. It was no
particular matter, but what made me mad was to
come so extremely close and then miss. Indeed, I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>was madder than I can express, to think that if the
architect had only planned the place to hold 13,001
I could have got in. But, after all, I was not the
only person who had occasion to feel vexed.
Colonel X, a noted man in America, bought a
seat some days ago for $10 and a little afterward
met a knowing person who said the Shah would
be physically worn out before that concert night
and would not be there, and consequently nobody
else; so the seat was immediately sold for $5.
Then came another knowing one, who said the
Shah would unquestionably be at the concert, so
the colonel went straight and bought his ticket
back again. The temporary holder of it only
charged him $250 for carrying it around for him
during the interval! The colonel was at the concert,
and took the Shah’s head clerk for the
Shah all the evening. Vexation could go no further
than that.</p>

<h3 class='c012'>V <br /> MARK TWAIN GIVES THE ROYAL PERSIAN <br />A “SEND-OFF”</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div><span class='sc'>London</span>, <i>June 30, 1873</i>.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>For the present we are done with the Shah in
London. He is gone to the country to be further
“impressed.” After all, it would seem that he was
more moved and more genuinely entertained by the
military day at Windsor than by even the naval
show at Portsmouth. It is not to be wondered at,
since he is a good deal of a soldier himself and not
<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>much of a sailor. It has been estimated that there
were 300,000 people assembled at Windsor--some
say 500,000. That was a show in itself. The Queen
of England was there; so was Windsor Castle; also
an imposing array of cavalry, artillery, and infantry.
And the accessories to these several shows were
the matchless rural charms of England--a vast
expanse of green sward, walled in by venerable
forest trees, and beyond them glimpses of hills
clothed in Summer vegetation. Upon such a theater
a bloodless battle was fought and an honorable victory
won by trained soldiers who have not always
been carpet knights, but whose banners bear the
names of many historic fights.</p>

<p class='c001'>England is now practically done with the Shah.
True, his engagement is not yet completed, for he is
still billed to perform at one or two places; but
curiosity is becoming sated, and he will hardly draw
as good houses as heretofore. Whenever a star has
to go to the provinces it is a bad sign. The poor
man is well nigh worn out with hard work. The
other day he was to have performed before the Duke
of Buccleuch and was obliged to send an excuse.
Since then he failed of his engagement at the Bank
of England. He does not take rest even when he
might. He has a telegraphic apparatus in his apartments
in Buckingham Palace, and it is said that he
sits up late, talking with his capital of Persia
by telegraph. He is so fascinated with the wonderful
contrivance that he cannot keep away from it.
No doubt it is the only homelike thing the exile
finds in the hard, practical West, for it is the next
<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>of kin to the enchanted carpets that figure in
the romance and traditions of his own land, and
which carry the wanderer whither he will about
the earth, circumscribing the globe in the twinkling
of an eye, propelled by only the force of an
unspoken wish.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>GOSSIP ABOUT THE SHAH</h4>

<p class='c013'>This must be a dreary, unsatisfactory country to
him, where one’s desires are thwarted at every turn.
Last week he woke up at three in the morning and
demanded of the Vizier on watch by his bedside
that the ballet dancers be summoned to dance
before him. The Vizier prostrated himself upon the
floor and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“O king of kings, light of the world, source of
human peace and contentment, the glory and admiration
of the age, turn away thy sublime countenance,
let not thy fateful frown wither thy slave; for
behold the dancers dwell wide asunder in the desert
wastes of London, and not in many hours could they
be gathered together.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The Shah could not even speak, he was so astounded
with the novelty of giving a command that could
not be obeyed. He sat still a moment, suffering,
then wrote in his tablets these words:</p>

<p class='c001'>“<span class='sc'>Mem.</span>--Upon arrival in Teheran, let the Vizier
have the coffin which has just been finished for the
late general of the household troops--it will save
time.”</p>

<p class='c001'>He then got up and set his boots outside the door
to be blacked and went back to bed, calm and comfortable,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>making no more to-do about giving away
that costly coffin than I would about spending a
couple of shillings.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE LESSON OF HIS JOURNEY</h4>

<p class='c013'>If the mountains of money spent by civilized
Europe in entertaining the Shah shall win him to
adopt some of the mild and merciful ways that prevail
in Christian realms it will have been money well
and wisely laid out. If he learns that a throne may
rest as firmly upon the affections of a people as upon
their fears; that charity and justice may go hand in
hand without detriment to the authority of the
sovereign; that an enlarged liberty granted to the
subject need not impair the power of the monarch;
if he learns these things Persia will be the gainer by
his journey, and the money which Europe has
expended in entertaining him will have been profitably
invested. That the Shah needs a hint or two
in these directions is shown by the language of the
following petition, which has just reached him from
certain Parsees residing here and in India:</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE PETITION</h4>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c013'>1. A heavy and oppressive poll tax, called the Juzia, is imposed
upon the remnant of the ancient Zoroastrian race now residing
in Persia. A hundred years ago, when the Zoroastrian
population was 30,000 families, and comparatively well-to-do, the
tax was only 250 toomans; now, when there are scarcely six
thousand souls altogether, and stricken with poverty, they have
to pay 800 toomans. In addition to the crushing effect of this
tax, the government officials oppress these poor people in enforcing
the tax.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>2. A Parsee desirous of buying landed property is obliged to
pay twenty per cent. on the value of the property as fee to the
Kazee and other authorities.</p>

<p class='c001'>3. When a Parsee dies any member of his family, no matter
however distant, who may have previously been converted to
Mohammedanism, claims and obtains the whole property of the
deceased, to the exclusion of all the rightful heirs. In enforcing
this claim the convert is backed and supported by government
functionaries.</p>

<p class='c001'>4. When a Parsee returns to Persia from a foreign country
he is harassed with all sorts of exactions at the various places
he has to pass through in Persia.</p>

<p class='c001'>5. When any dispute arises, whether civil or criminal, between
a Mohammedan and a Parsee, the officials invariably side with
the former, and the testimony of one Mohammedan--no matter
how false on its very face--receives more credit than that of a
dozen or any number of Parsee witnesses. If a Mohammedan
kills a Parsee he is only fined about eight toomans, or four
pounds sterling; but on the contrary, if a Parsee wounds or
murders a Mohammedan he is not only cut to pieces himself,
but all his family and children are put to the sword, and sometimes
all the Parsees living in the same street are harassed in a
variety of ways. The Parsees are prevented from dressing themselves
well and from riding a horse or donkey. No matter, even
if he were ill and obliged to ride, he is compelled to dismount in
the presence of a Mohammedan rider, and is forced to walk to
the place of his destination. The Parsees are not allowed to trade
in European articles, nor are they allowed to deal in domestic
produce, as grocers, dyers, or oilmen, tailors, dairymen, &amp;c.,
on the ground that their touch would pollute the articles and
supplies and make them unfit for the use of Mohammedans.</p>

<p class='c001'>6. The Parsees are often insulted and abused in every way by
the Mohammedans, and their children are stolen or forcibly
taken away from them by the Mohammedans. These children
are concealed in Mohammedan houses, their names are changed,
and they are forced to become Mohammedans, and when they
refuse to embrace the Mohammedan faith they are maltreated
in various ways. When a man is forcibly converted, his wife and
family are also forced to join him as Mohammedans. The Mohammedans
desecrate the sacred places of worship of the Zoroastrians
and the places for the disposal of their dead.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>7. In general the Parsees are heavily taxed in various ways,
and are subjected to great oppression. In consequence of such
persecution the Parsee population of Persia has, during this
century, considerably decreased and is now so small that it consists
of a few thousand families only. It is possible that these
persecutions are practiced on the Zoroastrian inhabitants of
Persia without the knowledge of His Majesty the Shah.</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>THE INGENIOUS BARON REUTER</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>It is whispered that the Shah’s European trip was
not suggested by the Shah himself, but by the noted
telegraphic newsman, Baron Reuter. People who
pretend to know say that Reuter began life very
poor; that he was an energetic spirit and improved
such opportunities as fell in his way; that he learned
several languages, and finally became a European
guide, or courier, and employed himself in conducting
all sorts of foreigners through all sorts of countries
and wearing them out with the usual frantic
system of sight-seeing. That was a good education
for him; it also gave him an intimate knowledge of
all the routes of travel and taught him how certain
long ones might be shortened. By and by he got
some carrier pigeons and established a news express,
which necessarily prospered, since it furnished journals
and commercial people with all matters of
importance considerably in advance of the mails.
When railways came into vogue he obtained concessions
which enlarged his facilities and still enabled
him to defy competition. He was ready for
the telegraph and seized that, too; and now for
years</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>“REUTER’S TELEGRAMS”</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'>has stood in brackets at the head of the telegraphic
column of all European journals. He became rich;
he bought telegraph lines and built others, purchased
a second-hand German baronetcy, and finally
sold out his telegraphic property to his government
for $3,000,000 and was out of business for
once. But he could not stay out.</p>

<p class='c001'>After building himself a sort of a palace, he looked
around for fresh game, singled out the Shah of
Persia and “went for him,” as the historian Josephus
phrases it. He got an enormous “concession” from
him and then conceived the admirable idea of
exhibiting a Shah of Persia in the capitals of Europe
and thus advertising his concession before needful
capitalists. It was a sublimer idea than any that
any showman’s brain has ever given birth to. No
Shah had ever voluntarily traveled in Europe before;
but then no Shah had ever fallen into the hands of
a European guide before.</p>

<h4 class='c020'>THE FAT “CONCESSION”</h4>

<p class='c013'>The baron’s “concession” is a financial curiosity.
It allows him the sole right to build railways in
Persia for the next seventy years; also street railroads;
gives all the land necessary, free of charge,
for double tracks and fifty or sixty yards on each
side; all importations of <em>material</em>, etc., free of duty;
all the baron’s exports free of duty also. The baron
may appropriate and work all mines (except those
<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>of the precious metals) free of charge, the Shah to
have 15 per cent of the profits. Any private mine
may be “gobbled” (the Persian word is <i>akbamarish</i>)
by the baron if it has not been worked during
five years previously. The baron has the exclusive
privilege of making the most of all government
forests, he giving the Shah 15 per cent of the
profits from the wood sold. After a forest is removed,
the baron is to be preferred before all other
purchasers if he wants to buy the land. The baron
alone may dig wells and construct canals, and
he is to own all the land made productive by
such works. The baron is empowered to raise
$30,000,000 on the capital stock for working purposes,
and the Shah agrees to pay 7 per cent interest
on it; and Persia is wholly unencumbered with debt.
The Shah hands over to the baron the management
of his customs for twenty years, and the baron
engages to pay for this privilege $100,000 a year
more than the Shah now receives, so the baron
means to wake up that sleepy Persian commerce.
After the fifth year the baron is to pay the Shah an
additional 60 per cent of the profits, if his head is
still a portion of his person then. The baron is to
have first preference in the establishment of a bank.
The baron has preference in establishing gas, road,
telegraph, mill, manufacturing, forge, pavement, and
all such enterprises. The Shah is to have 20 per
cent of the profits arising from the railways.
Finally, the baron may sell out whenever he
wants to.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is a good “concession” in its way. It seems to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>make the Shah say: “Run Persia at my expense and
give me a fifth of the profits.”</p>

<p class='c001'>One’s first impulse is to envy the baron; but,
after all, I do not know. Some day, if things do not
go to suit the Shah, he may say, “There is no head
I admire so much as this baron’s; bring it to me on
a plate.”</p>

<h4 class='c020'>DEPARTURE OF THE IMPERIAL CIRCUS.</h4>

<p class='c013'>We are all sorry to see the Shah leave us, and yet
are glad on his account. We have had all the fun
and he all the fatigue. He would not have lasted
much longer here. I am just here reminded that the
only way whereby you may pronounce the Shah’s
title correctly is by taking a pinch of snuff. The
result will be “t-Shah!”</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>A WONDERFUL PAIR OF SLIPPERS</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div>(WITH LETTERS CONCERNING THEM FROM MARK</div>
    <div>TWAIN AND ELSIE LESLIE LYDE)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='sc'>Mark Twain’s Letter</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Hartford</span>, <i>Oct. 5, ’89</i>.</div>

<p class='c001'><span class='sc'>Dear Elsie</span>: The way of it was this. Away last
spring, Gillette<a id='r1' /><a href='#f1' class='c022'><sup>[1]</sup></a> and I pooled intellects on this proposition:
to get up a pleasant surprise of some kind for
you against your next visit--the surprise to take the
form of a tasteful and beautiful testimonial of some
sort or other, which should express somewhat of the
love we felt for you. Together we hit upon just the
right thing--a pair of slippers. Either one of us
could have thought of a single slipper, but it took
both of us to think of two slippers. In fact, one of
us did think of one slipper, and then, quick as a
flash, the other thought of the other one. It shows
how wonderful the human mind is. It is really
paleontological; you give one mind a bone, and the
other one instantly divines the rest of the animal.</p>

<p class='c001'>Gillette embroidered his slipper with astonishing
facility and splendor, but I have been a long
time pulling through with mine. You see, it was
my very first attempt at art, and I couldn’t rightly
get the hang of it along at first. And then I was so
busy that I couldn’t get a chance to work at it at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>home, and they wouldn’t let me embroider on the
cars; they said it made the other passengers afraid.
They didn’t like the light that flared into my eye
when I had an inspiration. And even the most fair-minded
people doubted me when I explained what it
was I was making--especially brakemen. Brakemen
always swore at it, and carried on, the way ignorant
people do, about art. They wouldn’t take
my word that it was a slipper; they said they believed
it was a snowshoe that had some kind of a
disease.</p>

<p class='c001'>But I have pulled through, and within twenty-four
hours of the time I told you I would--day before
yesterday. There ought to be a key to the
designs, but I haven’t had time to get one up.
However, if you will lay the work before you with
the forecastle pointing north, I will begin at that end
and explain the whole thing, layer by layer, so that
you can understand it.</p>

<p class='c001'>I began with that first red bar, and without
ulterior design, or plan of any sort--just as I would
begin a Prince and Pauper, or any other tale. And
mind you it is the easiest and surest way; because if
you invent two or three people and turn them loose
in your manuscript, something is bound to happen
to them--you can’t help it; and then it will take
you the rest of the book to get them out of the natural
consequences of that occurrence, and so, first thing
you know, there’s your book all finished up and never
cost you an idea. Well, the red stripe, with a bias
stitch, naturally suggested a blue one with a perpendicular
stitch, and I slammed it in, though when
<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>it came daylight I saw it was green--which didn’t
make any difference, because green and blue are
much the same, anyway, and in fact from a purely
moral point of view are regarded by the best authorities
as identical. Well, if you will notice, a blue
perpendicular stitch always suggests a ropy red involved
stitch, like a family of angle-worms trying to
climb in under each other to keep warm--it would
suggest that, every time, without the author of the
slipper ever having to think about it at all.</p>

<p class='c001'>Now at that point, young Dr. Root came in,
and, of course, he was interested in the slipper right
away, because he has always had a passion for art
himself, but has never had a chance to try, because
his folks are opposed to it and superstitious about it,
and have done all they could to keep him back; and
so he was eager to take a hand and see what he could
do. And it was beautiful to see him sit there and tell
Mrs. Clemens what had been happening while we
were off on summer vacation, and hold the slipper
up toward the end of his nose, and forget the sordid
world, and imagine the canvas was a “subject”
with a scalp wound, and nimbly whirl in that lovely
surgical stitch which you see there--and never
hesitating a moment in his talk except to say “Ouch”
when he stuck himself, and then going right on again
as smooth and easy as nothing. Yes, it was a charming
spectacle. And it was real art, too--realistic,
just native untaught genius; you can see the very
scalp itself, showing through between the stitches.</p>

<p class='c001'>Well, next I threw in that sheaf of green rods which
the lictors used to carry before the Roman consuls
<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>to lick them with when they didn’t behave--they
turned blue in the morning, but that is the way green
always acts.</p>

<p class='c001'>The next week, after a good rest, I snowed in
that sea of frothy waves, and set that yellow thing
afloat in it and those two things that are skewered
through it. It isn’t a home plate, and it isn’t a papal
tiara with the keys of St. Peter; no, it is a heart--my
heart--with two arrows stuck through it--arrows
that go in blue and come out crimson--crimson with
the best drops in that heart, and gladly shed for love
of you, dear.</p>

<p class='c001'>Now then, as you strike to the south’ard and drift
along down the starboard side, abaft the main-to’-gallant
scuppers, you come to that blue quarter-deck
which runs the rest of the way aft to the jumping-off
place. In the midst of that blue you will see some
big red letters--M. T.; and west’ard, over on the
port side, you will see some more red letters--<span class='sc'>to
E. L.</span> Aggregated, these several groups of letters
signify, Mark Twain to Elsie Leslie. And you will
notice that you have a gift for art yourself, for the
southern half of the L, embroidered by yourself, is
as good as anything I can do, after all my experience.</p>

<p class='c001'>There, now you understand the whole work. From
a professional point of view I consider the Heart
and Arrows by all odds the greatest triumph of the
whole thing; in fact, one of the ablest examples of
civil engineering in a beginner I ever saw--for it
was all inspiration, just the lightninglike inspiration
of the moment. I couldn’t do it again in a hundred
years--even if I recover this time and get just as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>well and strong as I was before. You notice what
fire there is in it--what rapture, enthusiasm, frenzy--what
blinding explosions of color. It is just a
“Turner”--that is what it is. It is just like his
“Slave Ship,” that immortal work. What you see
in the “Slave Ship” is a terrific explosion of radiating
rags and fragments of flaming crimson flying
from a common center of intense yellow which is
in violent commotion--insomuch that a Boston
reporter said it reminded him of a yellow cat dying
in a platter of tomatoes.</p>

<p class='c001'>Take the slippers and wear them next your heart,
Elsie dear; for every stitch in them is a testimony
of the affection which two of your loyalest friends
bear you. Every single stitch cost us blood. I’ve
got twice as many pores in me now as I used to
have; and you would never believe how many places
you can stick a needle into yourself until you go
into the embroidery line and devote yourself to art.</p>

<p class='c001'>Do not wear these slippers in public, dear; it
would only excite envy; and, as like as not, somebody
would try to shoot you.</p>

<p class='c001'>Merely use them to assist you in remembering
that among the many, many people who think all
the world of you is your friend,</p>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Mark Twain</span>.</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c005'>
    <div><span class='sc'>Elsie’s Reply.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>New York</span>, <i>October g, 1889</i>.</div>

<p class='c001'><span class='sc'>My Dear Mr. Clemens</span>: The slipper the long
letter and all the rest came this afternoon, I think
<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>they are splendid and shall have them framed and
keep them among my very most prechus things. I
have had a great many nice things given to me and
people often say very pleasant things but I am not
quite shure they always mean it or that they are as
trustable as you and “Leo” and I am very shure
thay would not spend their prechus time and shed
their blood for me so you see that is one reason why
I will think so much of it and then it was all so
funny to think of two great big men like you and
“little Willie” (that is what “Leo” calls himself to
me) imbroidering a pair of slippers for a little girl
like me of corse you have a great many large words
in your letter that I do not quite understand. One
word comencing with P. has fifteen letters in it and
I do not know what you mean by pooled unless you
mean you and Leo put your two minds together to
make the slippers which was very nice of you both
I think you are just right about the angle worms
thay did look like that this summer when I used to
dig them for bate to fish with please tell Dr. Root
I will think of him when I look at the part he
did the Surgicle Stich I mean I hope you will be
quite well and strong by the time you get this
letter as you were before you made my slipper it
would make me very sad if you were to be ill.
Give my love to Mrs. Clemens Susie Clara Gene
I-know and you-know and Vix and all of my
Hartford friends tell Gene I wish I was with her
and we would have a nice jump in the hay loft.
When you come to New York you must call and
see me then we will see about those big words
<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>my address is up in the top left corner of this
letter.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c023'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>To my loyal friend</div>
      <div class='line in15'>Mark Twain</div>
      <div class='line in11'>From his little friend</div>
      <div class='line in32'><span class='sc'>Elsie Leslie Lyde</span>.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>[Not Little Lord Fauntleroy now, but Tom Canty of Offal
Court and Little Edward of Wales.]<a id='r2' /><a href='#f2' class='c022'><sup>[2]</sup></a></p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f1'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. William Gillette, the distinguished actor and playwright.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f2'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. Elsie Leslie, then a little girl, played Little Lord Fauntleroy and
the double part of Tom Canty and the Little Prince, with great
success.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>AIX, THE PARADISE OF THE <br /> RHEUMATICS <br /> <span class='small'>(Contributed to the New York <cite>Sun</cite>, 1891)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='c011'>Aix-les-Bains. Certainly this is an enchanting
place. It is a strong word, but I think the
facts justify it. True, there is a rabble of nobilities,
big and little, here all the time, and often a king or
two; but as these behave quite nicely and also keep
mainly to themselves, they are little or no annoyance.
And then a king makes the best advertisement
there is, and the cheapest. All he costs is a
reception at the station by the mayor and the police
in their Sunday uniforms, shop-front decorations
along the route from station to hotel, brass band at
the hotel, fireworks in the evening, free bath in the
morning. This is the whole expense; and in return
for it he goes away from here with the broad of his
back metaphorically stenciled over with display ads.,
which shout to all nations of the world, assisted by
the telegraph:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Rheumatism routed at Aix-les-Bains!</p>

<p class='c001'>Gout admonished, Nerves braced up!</p>

<p class='c001'>All diseases welcomed, and satisfaction given or the money
returned at the door!</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>We leave nature’s noble cliffs and crags undefiled
and uninsulted by the advertiser’s paint brush. We
use the back of a king, which is better and properer
<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>and more effective, too, for the cliffs stay still and
few see it, but the king moves across the fields of the
world and is visible from all points, like a constellation.
We are out for kings this week, but one will
be along soon--possibly His Satanic Majesty of
Russia. There’s a colossus for you! A mysterious
and terrible form that towers up into unsearchable
space and casts a shadow across the universe like a
planet in eclipse. There will be but one absorbing
spectacle in this world when we stencil him and start
him out.</p>

<p class='c001'>This is an old valley, this of Aix, both in the history
of man and in the geological records of its
rocks. Its little lake of Bourget carries the human
history back to the lake dwellers, furnishing seven
groups of their habitations, and Dr. William Wakefield
says in his interesting local guide that the mountains
round about furnish “Geographically, a veritable
epitome of the globe.” The stratified chapters
of the earth’s history are clearly and permanently
written on the sides of the roaring bulk of the Dent
du Chat, but many of the layers of race, religion,
and government which in turn have flourished and
perished here between the lake dweller of several
thousand years ago and the French republican of
to-day, are ill defined and uninforming by comparison.
There are several varieties of pagans. They
went their way, one after the other, down into night
and oblivion, leaving no account of themselves, no
memorials. The Romans arrived 2,300 years ago,
other parts of France are rich with remembrances
of their eight centuries of occupation, but not many
<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>are here. Other pagans followed the Romans. By
and by Christianity arrived, some 400 years after the
time of Christ. The long procession of races, languages,
religions, and dynasties demolished one another’s
records--it is man’s way always.</p>

<p class='c001'>As a result, nothing is left of the handiwork of the
remoter inhabitants of the region except the constructions
of the lake dwellers and some Roman odds
and ends. There is part of a small Roman temple,
there is part of a Roman bath, there is a graceful
and battered Roman arch. It stands on a turfy level
over the way from the present great bath house, is
surrounded by magnolia trees, and is both a picturesque
and suggestive object. It has stood there some
1,600 years. Its nearest neighbor, not twenty steps
away, is a Catholic church. They are symbols of
the two chief eras in the history of Aix. Yes, and of
the European world. I judge that the venerable arch
is held in reverent esteem by everybody, and that
this esteem is its sufficient protection from insult, for
it is the only public structure I have yet seen in
France which lacks the sign, “It is forbidden to post
bills here.” Its neighbor the church has that sign
on more than one of its sides, and other signs, too,
forbidding certain other sorts of desecration.</p>

<p class='c001'>The arch’s nearest neighbor--just at its elbow, like
the church--is the telegraph office. So there you
have the three great eras bunched together--the era
of War, the era of Theology, the era of Business.
You pass under the arch, and the buried Cæsars seem
to rise from the dust of the centuries and flit before
you; you pass by that old battered church, and are
<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>in touch with the Middle Ages, and with another step
you can put down ten francs and shake hands with
Oshkosh under the Atlantic.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is curious to think what changes the last of the
three symbols stand for; changes in men’s ways and
thoughts, changes in material civilization, changes in
the Deity--or in men’s conception of the <a id='corr97.7'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Diety'>Deity</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_97.7'><ins class='correction' title='Diety'>Deity</ins></a></span>, if
that is an exacter way of putting it. The second of
the symbols arrived in the earth at a time when the
Deity’s possessions consisted of a small sky freckled
with mustard-seed stars, and under it a patch of
landed estate not so big as the holdings of the Tsar
to-day, and all His time was taken up in trying to
keep a handful of Jews in some sort of order--exactly
the same number of them that the Tsar has lately
been dealing with in a more abrupt and far less loving
and long-suffering way. At a later time--a time
within all old men’s memories--the Deity was otherwise
engaged. He was dreaming His eternities away
on His Great White Throne, steeped in the soft bliss
of hymns of praise wafted aloft without ceasing from
choirs of ransomed souls, Presbyterians and the rest.
This was a Deity proper enough to the size and conditions
of things, no doubt a provincial Deity with
provincial tastes. The change since has been inconceivably
vast. His empire has been unimaginably
enlarged. To-day He is a Master of a universe made
up of myriads upon myriads of gigantic suns, and
among them, lost in that limitless sea of light, floats
that atom. His earth, which once seemed so good
and satisfactory and cost so many days of patient
labor to build, is a mere cork adrift in the waters of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>a shoreless Atlantic. This is a business era, and no
doubt he is governing His huge empire now, not by
dreaming the time away in the buzz of hymning
choirs, with occasional explosions of arbitrary power
disproportioned to the size of the annoyance, but
by applying laws of a sort proper and necessary to
the sane and successful management of a complex
and prodigious establishment, and by seeing to it
that the exact and constant operation of these laws
is not interfered with for the accommodation of any
individual or political or religious faction or nation.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mighty has been the advance of the nations and
the liberalization of thought. A result of it is a
changed Deity, a Deity of a dignity and sublimity
proportioned to the majesty of His office and the
magnitude of His empire, a Deity who has been
freed from a hundred fretting chains and will in time
be freed from the rest by the several ecclesiastical
bodies who have these matters in charge. It was,
without doubt, a mistake and a step backward when
the Presbyterian Synods of America lately decided,
by vote, to leave Him still embarrassed with the
dogma of infant damnation. Situated as we are, we
cannot at present know with how much of anxiety
He watched the balloting, nor with how much of
grieved disappointment He observed the result.</p>

<p class='c001'>Well, all these eras above spoken of are modern,
they are of last week, they are of yesterday, they
are of this morning, so to speak. The springs, the
healing waters that gush up from under this hillside
village, indeed are ancient. They, indeed, are a
genuine antiquity; they antedate all those fresh
<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>human matters by processions of centuries; they
were born with the fossils of the Dent du Chat,
and they have been always abundant. They furnished
a million gallons a day to wash the lake
dwellers with, the same to wash the Cæsars with,
no less to wash Balzac with, and have not diminished
on my account. A million gallons a day for how
many days? Figures cannot set forth the number.
The delivery, in the aggregate, has amounted to an
Atlantic. And there is still an Atlantic down in
there. By Doctor Wakefield’s calculation the
Atlantic is three-quarters of a mile down in the
earth. The calculation is based upon the temperature
of the water, which is 114 degrees to 117 degrees
Fahrenheit, the natural law being that below a certain
depth heat augments at the rate of one degree
for every sixty feet of descent.</p>

<p class='c001'>Aix is handsome, and is handsomely situated, too,
on its hill slope, with its stately prospect of mountain
range and plain spread out before it and about
it. The streets are mainly narrow, and steep and
crooked and interesting, and offer considerable
variety in the way of names; on the corner of one
of them you read this: “Rue du Puits d’Enfer”
(“Pit of Hell Street”). Some of the sidewalks are
only eighteen inches wide; they are for the cats,
probably. There is a pleasant park, and there are
spacious and beautiful grounds connected with the
two great pleasure resorts, the Cercle and the Villa
des Fleurs. The town consists of big hotels, little
hotels, and <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>pensions</i></span>. The season lasts about six
months, beginning with May. When it is at its
<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>height there are thousands of visitors here, and in
the course of the season as many as 20,000 in the
aggregate come and go.</p>

<p class='c001'>These are not all here for the baths; some come
for the gambling facilities and some for the climate.
It is a climate where the field strawberry flourishes
through the spring, summer, and fall. It is hot in
the summer, and hot in earnest; but this is only in
the daytime; it is not hot at night. The English
season is May and June; they get a good deal of
rain then, and they like that. The Americans take
July, and the French take August. By the 1st of
July the open-air music and the evening concerts
and operas and plays are fairly under way, and from
that time onward the rush of pleasure has a steadily
increasing boom. It is said that in August the great
grounds and the gambling rooms are crowded all the
time and no end of ostensible fun going on.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is a good place for rest and sleep and general
recuperation of forces. The book of Doctor Wakefield
says there is something about this atmosphere
which is the deadly enemy of insomnia, and I think
this must be true, for if I am any judge, this town
is at times the noisiest one in Europe, and yet a body
gets more sleep here than he would at home, I don’t
care where his home is. Now, we are living at a most
comfortable and satisfactory <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>pension</i></span>, with a garden
of shade trees and flowers and shrubs, and a convincing
air of quiet and repose. But just across the
narrow street is the little market square, and at the
corner of that is the church that is neighbor to
the Roman arch, and that narrow street, and that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>billiard table of a market place, and that church are
able, on a bet, to turn out more noise to a cubic yard
at the wrong time than any other similar combination
in the earth or out of it. In the street you
have the skull-bursting thunder of the passing hack, a
volume of sound not producible by six hacks anywhere
else; on the hack is a lunatic with a whip which
he cracks to notify the public to get out of his way.
This crack is as keen and sharp and penetrating and
ear-splitting as a pistol shot at close range, and the
lunatic delivers it in volleys, not single shots. You
think you will not be able to live till he gets by, and
when he does get by he leaves only a vacancy for the
bandit who sells <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><cite>Le Petit Journal</cite></span> to fill with his
strange and awful yell. He arrives with the early
morning and the market people, and there is a dog
that arrives at about the same time and barks
steadily at nothing till he dies, and they fetch another
dog just like him. The bark of this breed is the
twin of the whip volley, and stabs like a knife. By
and by, what is left of you the church bell gets.
There are many bells, and apparently six or seven
thousand town clocks, and as they are all five minutes
apart--probably by law--there are no intervals.
Some of them are striking all the time--at least, after
you go to bed they are. There is one clock that
strikes the hour and then strikes it over again to see
if it was right. Then for evenings and Sundays
there is a chime--a chime that starts in pleasantly
and musically, then suddenly breaks into a frantic
roar, and boom, and crash of warring sounds that
makes you think Paris is up and the Revolution come
<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>again. And yet, as I have said, one sleeps here--sleeps
like the dead. Once he gets his grip on his
sleep, neither hack, nor whip, nor news fiend, nor
dog, nor bell cyclone, nor all of them together, can
wrench it loose or mar its deep and tranquil continuity.
Yes, there is indeed something in this air
that is death to insomnia.</p>

<p class='c001'>The buildings of the Cercle and the Villa des
Fleurs are huge in size, and each has a theater in it,
and a great restaurant, also conveniences for gambling
and general and variegated entertainment.
They stand in ornamental grounds of great extent and
beauty. The multitudes of fashionable folk sit at
refreshment tables in the open air, afternoons, and
listen to the music, and it is there that they mainly
go to break the Sabbath.</p>

<p class='c001'>To get the privilege of entering these grounds and
buildings you buy a ticket for a few francs, which is
good for the whole season. You are then free to go
and come at all hours, attend the plays and concerts
free, except on special occasions, gamble, buy
refreshments, and make yourself symmetrically
comfortable.</p>

<p class='c001'>Nothing could be handier than those two little
theaters. The curtain doesn’t rise until 8.30; then
between the acts one can idle for half an hour in
the other departments of the building, damaging his
appetite in the restaurants or his pocketbook in the
baccarat room. The singers and actors are from
Paris, and their performance is beyond praise.</p>

<p class='c001'>I was never in a fashionable gambling hell until I
came here. I had read several millions of descriptions
<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>of such places, but the reality was new to me. I very
much wanted to see this animal, especially the new
historic game of baccarat, and this was a good place,
for Aix ranks next to Monte Carlo for high play and
plenty of it. But the result was what I might have
expected--the interest of the looker-on perishes with
the novelty of the spectacle; that is to say, in a few
minutes. A permanent and intense interest is acquirable
in baccarat, or in any other game, but you
have to buy it. You don’t get it by standing around
and looking on.</p>

<p class='c001'>The baccarat table is covered with green cloth and
is marked off in divisions with chalk or something.
The banker sits in the middle, the croupier opposite.
The customers fill all the chairs at the table, and the
rest of the crowd are massed at their back and leaning
over them to deposit chips or gold coins. Constantly
money and chips are flung upon the table, and
the game seems to consist in the croupier’s reaching
for these things with a flexible sculling oar, and
raking them home. It appeared to be a rational
enough game for him, and if I could have borrowed
his oar I would have stayed, but I didn’t see where
the entertainment of the others came in. This was
because I saw without perceiving, and observed
without understanding. For the widow and the
orphan and the others do win money there. Once an
old gray mother in Israel or elsewhere pulled out,
and I heard her say to her daughter or her granddaughter
as they passed me, “There, I’ve won six
louis, and I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.” Also
there was this statistic. A friend pointed to a young
<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>man with the dead stub of a cigar in his mouth,
which he kept munching nervously all the time and
pitching hundred-dollar chips on the board while two
sweet young girls reached down over his shoulders to
deposit modest little gold pieces, and said: “He’s
only funning, now; wasting a few hundred to pass
the time--waiting for the gold room to open, you
know, which won’t be till after midnight--then
you’ll see him bet! He won £14,000 there last night.
They don’t bet anything there but big money.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The thing I chiefly missed was the haggard
people with the intense eye, the hunted look, the
desperate mien, candidates for suicide and the
pauper’s grave. They are in the description, as a rule,
but they were off duty that night. All the gamblers,
male and female, old and young, looked abnormally
cheerful and prosperous.</p>

<p class='c001'>However, all the nations were there, clothed richly
and speaking all the languages. Some of the women
were painted, and were evidently shaky as to character.
These items tallied with the descriptions well
enough.</p>

<p class='c001'>The etiquette of the place was difficult to master.
In the brilliant and populous halls and corridors you
don’t smoke, and you wear your hat, no matter
how many ladies are in the thick throng of drifting
humanity, but the moment you cross the sacred
threshold and enter the gambling hell, off the hat
must come, and everybody lights his cigar and goes
to suffocating the ladies.</p>

<p class='c001'>But what I came here for five weeks ago was the
baths. My right arm was disabled with rheumatism.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>To sit at home in America and guess out the European
bath best fitted for a particular ailment or combination
of ailments, it is not possible, and it would
not be a good idea to experiment in that way, anyhow.
There are a great many curative baths on the
Continent, and some are good for one disease and
bad for another. So it is necessary to let your
physician name a bath for you. As a rule, Americans
go to Europe to get this advice, and South
Americans go to Paris for it. Now and then an
economist chooses his bath himself and does a
thousand miles of railroading to get to it, and then
the local physicians tell him he has come to the wrong
place. He sees that he has lost time and money and
strength, and almost the minute he realizes this he
loses his temper. I had the rheumatism and was
advised to go to Aix, not so much because I had that
disease as because I had the promise of certain others.
What they were was not explained to me, but they
are either in the following menu or I have been sent
to the wrong place. Doctor Wakefield’s book says:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>We know that the class of maladies benefited by the water
and baths at Aix are those due to defect of nourishment, debility
of the nervous system, or to a gouty, rheumatic, herpetic, or
scrofulous diathesis--all diseases extremely debilitating, and
requiring a tonic, and not depressing action of the remedy. This
it seems to find here, as recorded experience and daily action can
testify. According to the line of treatment followed particularly
with due regard to the temperature, the action of the Aix waters
can be made sedative, exciting, derivative, or alterative and tonic.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>The “Establishment” is the property of France,
and all the officers and servants are employees of
the French government. The bathhouse is a huge
<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>and massive pile of white marble masonry, and looks
more like a temple than anything else. It has several
floors and each is full of bath cabinets. There is
every kind of bath--for the nose, the ears, the
throat, vapor baths, swimming baths, and all people’s
favorite, the douche. It is a good building to get
lost in, when you are not familiar with it. From
early morning until nearly noon people are streaming
in and streaming out without halt. The majority
come afoot, but great numbers are brought in
sedan chairs, a sufficiently ugly contrivance whose
cover is a steep little tent made of striped canvas.
You see nothing of the patient in this diving bell as
the bearers tramp along, except a glimpse of his
ankles bound together and swathed around with
blankets or towels to that generous degree that the
result suggests a sore piano leg. By attention and
practice the pallbearers have got so that they can
keep out of step all the time--and they do it. As a consequence
their veiled churn goes rocking, tilting, swaying
along like a bell buoy in a ground swell. It makes
the oldest sailor homesick to look at that spectacle.</p>

<p class='c001'>The “course” is usually fifteen douche baths and
five tub baths. You take the douche three days in
succession, then knock off and take a tub. You
keep up this distribution through the course. If one
course does not cure you, you take another one after
an interval. You seek a local physician and he
examines your case and prescribes the kind of bath
required for it, with various other particulars; then
you buy your course tickets and pay for them in
advance--nine dollars. With the tickets you get a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>memorandum book with your dates and hours all
set down on it. The doctor takes you into the bath
the first morning and gives some instructions to the
two <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>doucheurs</i></span> who are to handle you through the
course. The <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>pourboires</i></span> are about ten cents to each
of the men for each bath, payable at the end of the
course. Also at the end of the course you pay three
or four francs to the superintendent of your department
of the bathhouse. These are useful particulars
to know, and are not to be found in the books. A
servant of your hotel carries your towels and sheet to
the bath daily and brings them away again. They
are the property of the hotel; the French government
doesn’t furnish these things.</p>

<p class='c001'>You meet all kinds of people at a place like this,
and if you give them a chance they will submerge
you under their circumstances, for they are either
very glad or very sorry they came, and they want
to spread their feelings out and enjoy them. One of
these said to me:</p>

<p class='c001'>“It’s great, these baths. I didn’t come here for
my health; I only came to find out if there was anything
the matter with me. The doctor told me if
there was the symptoms would soon appear. After
the first douche I had sharp pains in all my muscles.
The doctor said it was different varieties of rheumatism,
and the best varieties there were, too.
After my second bath I had aches in my bones, and
skull and around. The doctor said it was different
varieties of neuralgia, and the best in the market,
anybody would tell me so. I got many new kinds of
pains out of my third douche. These were in my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>joints. The doctor said it was gout, complicated
with heart disease, and encouraged me to go on.
Then we had the fourth douche, and I came out on a
stretcher that time, and fetched with me one vast,
diversified undulating continental kind of pain, with
horizons to it, and zones, and parallels of latitude,
and meridians of longitude, and isothermal belts, and
variations of the compass--oh, everything tidy, and
right up to the latest developments, you know. The
doctor said it was inflammation of the soul, and
just the very thing. Well, I went right on gathering
them in, toothache, liver complaint, softening of the
brain, nostalgia, bronchitis, osteology, fits, Coleoptera,
hydrangea, Cyclopædia Britannica, delirium
tremens, and a lot of other things that I’ve got down
on my list that I’ll show you, and you can keep it if
you like and tally off the bric-à-brac as you lay it in.</p>

<p class='c001'>The doctor said I was a grand proof of what these
baths could do; said I had come here as innocent of
disease as a grindstone, and inside of three weeks these
baths had sluiced out of me every important ailment
known to medical science, along with considerable
more that were entirely new and patentable. Why,
he wanted to exhibit me in his bay <a id='corr108.24'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='window!'>window!”</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_108.24'><ins class='correction' title='window!'>window!”</ins></a></span></p>

<p class='c001'>There seem to be a good many liars this year. I
began to take the baths and found them most enjoyable;
so enjoyable that if I hadn’t had a disease
I would have borrowed one, just to have a pretext for
going on. They took me into a stone-floored basin
about fourteen feet square, which had enough strange-looking
pipes and things in it to make it look like a
torture chamber. The two half-naked men seated
<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>me on a pine stool and kept a couple of warm-water
jets as thick as one’s wrist playing upon me while they
kneaded me, stroked me, twisted me, and applied all
the other details of the scientific massage to me for
seven or eight minutes. Then they stood me up and
played a powerful jet upon me all around for another
minute. The cool shower bath came next, and the
thing was over. I came out of the bathhouse a few
minutes later feeling younger and fresher and finer
than I have felt since I was a boy. The spring and
cheer and delight of this exaltation lasted three
hours, and the same uplifting effect has followed the
twenty douches which I have taken since.</p>

<p class='c001'>After my first douche I went to the chemist’s on
the corner, as per instructions, and asked for half a
glass of Challe water. It comes from a spring sixteen
miles from here. It was furnished to me, but, perceiving
that there was something the matter with it,
I offered to wait till they could get some that was
fresh, but they said it always smelled that way.
They said that the reason that this was so much
ranker than the sulphur water of the bath was that
this contained thirty-two times as much sulphur as
that. It is true, but in my opinion that water comes
from a cemetery, and not a fresh cemetery, either.
History says that one of the early Roman generals
lost an army down there somewhere. If he could
come back now I think this water would help him
find it again. However, I drank the Challe, and have
drunk it once or twice every day since. I suppose
it is all right, but I wish I knew what was the matter
with those Romans.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>My first baths developed plenty of pain, but the
subsequent ones removed almost all of it. I have got
back the use of my arm these last few days, and I am
going away now.</p>

<p class='c001'>There are many beautiful drives about Aix, many
interesting places to visit, and much pleasure to be
found in paddling around the little Lake Bourget
on the small steamers, but the excursion which
satisfied me best was a trip to Annecy and its neighborhood.
You go to Annecy in an hour by rail,
through a garden land that has not had its equal for
beauty perhaps since Eden; and certainly not Eden
was cultivated as this garden is. The charm and
loveliness of the whole region are bewildering.
Picturesque rocks, forest-clothed hills, slopes richly
bright in the cleanest and greenest grass, fields of
grain without freck or flaw, dainty of color and as
shiny and shimmery as silk, old gray mansions and
towers, half buried in foliage and sunny eminences,
deep chasms with precipitous walls, and a swift
stream of pale-blue water between, with now and
then a tumbling cascade, and always noble mountains
in view, with vagrant white clouds curling about
their summits.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then at the end of an hour you come to Annecy
and rattle through its old crooked lanes, built solidly
up with curious old houses that are a dream of the
Middle Ages, and presently you come to the main
object of your trip--Lake Annecy. It is a revelation;
it is a miracle. It brings the tears to a body’s eyes, it
affects you just as all things that you instantly recognize
as perfect affect you--perfect music, perfect
<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>eloquence, perfect art, perfect joy, perfect grief. It
stretches itself out there in a caressing sunlight, and
away toward its border of majestic mountains, a
crisped and radiant plain of water of the divinest
blue that can be imagined. All the blues are there,
from the faintest shoal-water suggestion of the color,
detectable only in the shadow of some overhanging
object, all the way through, a little blue and a little
bluer still, and again a shade bluer, till you strike the
deep, rich Mediterranean splendor which breaks the
heart in your bosom, it is so beautiful.</p>

<p class='c001'>And the mountains, as you skim along on the
steamboat, how stately their forms, how noble their
proportions, how green their velvet slopes, how soft
the mottlings of the sun and shadow that play about
the rocky ramparts that crown them, how opaline
the vast upheavals of snow banked against the sky
in the remotenesses beyond--Mont Blanc and the
others--how shall anybody describe? Why, not
even the painter can quite do it, and the most the
pen can do is to suggest.</p>

<p class='c001'>Up the lake there is an old abbey--Tallories--relic
of the Middle Ages. We stopped there; stepped
from the sparkling water and the rush and boom
and fret and fever of the nineteenth century into the
solemnity and the silence and the soft gloom and the
brooding mystery of a remote antiquity. The stone
step at the water’s edge had the traces of a worn-out
inscription on it; the wide flight of stone steps that
led up to the front door was polished smooth by the
passing feet of forgotten centuries, and there was not
an unbroken stone among them all. Within the pile
<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>was the old square cloister with covered arcade all
around it where the monks of the ancient times used
to sit and meditate, and now and then welcome to
their hospitalities the wandering knight with his tin
breeches on, and in the middle of the square court
(open to the sky) was a stone well curb, cracked and
slick with age and use, and all about it were weeds,
and among the weeds moldy brickbats that the
Crusaders used to throw at one another. A passage
at the further side of the cloister led to another
weedy and roofless little inclosure beyond where there
was a ruined wall clothed to the top with masses of
ivy, and flanking it was a battered and picturesque
arch. All over the building there were comfortable
rooms and comfortable beds and clean plank floors
with no carpets on them. In one room upstairs were
half a dozen portraits, dimming relics of the vanished
centuries--portraits of abbots who used to be as
grand as princes in their old day, and very rich, and
much worshiped and very bold; and in the next room
there were a howling chromo and an electric bell.
Downstairs there was an ancient wood carving with a
Latin word commanding silence, and there was a
spang-new piano close by. Two elderly French
women, with the kindest and honestest and sincerest
faces, have the abbey now, and they board and
lodge people who are tired of the roar of cities and
want to be where the dead silence and serenity
and peace of this old nest will heal their blistered
spirits and patch up their ragged minds. They fed
us well, they slept us well, and I wish I could
have stayed there a few years and got a solid rest.</p>

<p class='c025'><span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>MARIENBAD--A HEALTH FACTORY</p>

<hr class='c026' />
<p class='c027'>THE SIMPLE BUT SUFFICIENT REGIMEN IMPOSED ON
PATIENTS IN AN AUSTRIAN RESORT--OBSERVATIONS
ON DIGESTION.</p>
<hr class='c026' />

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>(Contributed to the New York <cite>Sun</cite>, 1891)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>This place is the village of Marienbad, Bohemia.
It seems no very great distance from Annecy,
in Haute-Savoie, to this place--you make it in less
than thirty hours by these continental express
trains--but the changes in the scenery are great; they
are quite out of proportion to the distance covered.
From Annecy by Aix to Geneva, you have blue lakes,
with bold mountains springing from their borders,
and far glimpses of snowy wastes lifted against the
horizon beyond, while all about you is a garden
cultivated to the last possibility of grace and beauty--a
cultivation which doesn’t stop with the handy
lower levels, but is carried right up the sheer steeps
and propped there with ribs of masonry, and made
to stay there in spite of Newton’s law. Beyond
Geneva--beyond Lausanne, at any rate--you have
for a while a country which noticeably resembles
New England, and seems out of place and like an
intruder--an intruder who is wearing his every-day
clothes at a fancy-dress ball. But presently on your
<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>right, huge green mountain ramparts rise up, and
after that for hours you are absorbed in watching
the rich shadow effects which they furnish, and are
only dully aware that New England is gone and that
you are flying past quaint and unspeakable old towns
and towers. Next day you have the lake of Zurich,
and presently the Rhine is swinging by you. How
clean it is! How clear it is! How blue it is! How
green it is! How swift and rollicking and insolent
are its gait and style! How vivid and splendid its
colors--beautiful wreck and chaos of all the soap
bubbles in the universe! A person born on the
Rhine must worship it.</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,</div>
      <div class='line'>The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear.</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>Yes, that is where his heart would be, that is
where his last thoughts would be, the “soldier of
the legion” who “lay dying in Algiers.”</p>

<p class='c001'>And by and by you are in a German region, which
you discover to be quite different from the recent
Swiss lands behind you. You have a sea before you,
that is to say; the green land goes rolling away, in
ocean swells, to the horizon. And there is another
new feature. Here and there at wide intervals you
have islands, hills two hundred and three hundred
feet high, of a haystack form, that rise abruptly out
of the green plain, and are wooded solidly to the top.
On the top there is just room for a ruined
castle, and there it is, every time; above the summit
you see the crumbling arches and broken towers
projecting.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>Beyond Stuttgart, next day, you find other changes
still. By and by, approaching and leaving Nuremberg
and down by Newhaus, your landscape is
humped everywhere with scattered knobs of rock,
unsociable crags of a rude, towerlike look, and
thatched with grass and vines and bushes. And
now and then you have gorges, too, of a modest
pattern as to size, with precipice walls curiously
carved and honeycombed by--I don’t know what--but
water, no doubt.</p>

<p class='c001'>The changes are not done yet, for the instant the
country finds it is out of Württemberg and into
Bavaria it discards one more thickness of soil to go
with previous disrobings, and then nothing remains
over the bones but the shift. There may be a poorer
soil somewhere, but it is not likely.</p>

<p class='c001'>A couple of hours from Bayreuth you cross into
Bohemia, and before long you reach this Marienbad,
and recognize another sharp change, the change
from the long ago to to-day; that is to say from the
very old to the spick and span new; from an architecture
totally without shapeliness or ornament to
an architecture attractively equipped with both;
from universal dismalness as to color to universal
brightness and beauty as to tint; from a town which
seems made up of prisons to a town which is made
up of gracious and graceful mansions proper to the
light of heart and crimeless. It is like jumping out
of Jerusalem into Chicago.</p>

<p class='c001'>The more I think of these many changes, the more
surprising the thing seems. I have never made so
picturesque a journey before, and there cannot be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>another trip of like length in the world that can
furnish so much variety and of so charming and
interesting a sort.</p>

<p class='c001'>There are only two or three streets here in this
snug pocket in the hemlock hills, but they are handsome.
When you stand at the foot of a street and
look up at the slant of it you see only block fronts of
graceful pattern, with happily broken lines and the
pleasant accent of bay projections and balconies in
orderly disorder and harmonious confusion, and
always the color is fresh and cheery, various shades
of cream, with softly contrasting trimmings of white,
and now and then a touch of dim red. These blocks
are all thick walled, solid, massive, tall for this
Europe; but it is the brightest and newest looking
town on the Continent, and as pretty as anybody
could require. The steep hills spring high aloft from
their very back doors and are clothed densely to
their tops with hemlocks.</p>

<p class='c001'>In Bavaria everybody is in uniform, and you
wonder where the private citizens are, but here in
Bohemia the uniforms are very rare. Occasionally
one catches a glimpse of an Austrian officer, but it
is only occasionally. Uniforms are so scarce that
we seem to be in a republic. Almost the only striking
figure is the Polish Jew. He is very frequent.
He is tall and of grave countenance and wears a
coat that reaches to his ankle bones, and he has a
little wee curl or two in front of each ear. He has
a prosperous look, and seems to be as much respected
as anybody.</p>

<p class='c001'>The crowds that drift along the promenade at
<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>music time twice a day are fashionably dressed after
the Parisian pattern, and they look a good deal
alike, but they speak a lot of languages which you
have not encountered before, and no ignorant person
can spell their names, and they can’t pronounce them
themselves.</p>

<p class='c001'>Marienbad--Mary’s Bath. The Mary is the Virgin.
She is the patroness of these curative springs.
They try to cure everything--gout, rheumatism,
leanness, fatness, dyspepsia, and all the rest. The
whole thing is the property of a convent, and has
been for six or seven hundred years. However,
there was never a boom here until a quarter of a
century ago.</p>

<p class='c001'>If a person has the gout, this is what they do
with him: they have him out at 5.30 in the morning,
and give him an egg and let him look at a cup of
tea. At six he must be at his particular spring, with
his tumbler hanging at his belt--and he will have
plenty of company there. At the first note of the
orchestra he must lift his tumbler and begin to sip
his dreadful water with the rest. He must sip slowly
and be a long time at it. Then he must tramp about
the hills for an hour or so, and get all the exercise
and fresh air possible. Then he takes his tub or
wallows in his mud, if mud baths are his sort. By
noon he has a fine appetite, and the rules allow him
to turn himself loose and satisfy it, so long as he is
careful and eats only such things as he doesn’t
want. He puts in the afternoon walking the hills
and filling up with fresh air. At night he is allowed
to take three ounces of any kind of food he doesn’t
<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>like and drink one glass of any kind of liquor that
he has a prejudice against; he may also smoke one
pipe if he isn’t used to it. At half past nine sharp
he must be in bed and his candle out. Repeat the
whole thing the next day. I don’t see any advantage
in this over having the gout.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the case of most diseases that is about what
one is required to undergo, and if you have any
pleasant habit that you value, they want that. They
want that the first thing. They make you drop
everything that gives an interest to life. Their idea
is to reverse your whole system of existence and
make a regenerating revolution. If you are a Republican,
they make you talk free trade. If you are a
Democrat they make you talk protection; if you
are a Prohibitionist, you have got to go to bed
drunk every night till you get well. They spare
nothing, they spare nobody. Reform, reform, that
is the whole song. If a person is an orator, they gag
him; if he likes to read, they won’t let him; if he
wants to sing, they make him whistle. They say
they can cure any ailment, and they do seem to do
it; but why should a patient come all the way here?
Why shouldn’t he do these things at home and save
the money? No disease would stay with a person
who treated it like that.</p>

<p class='c001'>I didn’t come here to take baths, I only came to
look around. But first one person, then another
began to throw out hints, and pretty soon I was a
good deal concerned about myself. One of these
goutees here said I had a gouty look about the eye;
next a person who has catarrh of the intestines asked
<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>me if I didn’t notice a dim sort of stomach ache
when I sneezed. I hadn’t before, but I did seem to
notice it then. A man that’s here for heart disease
said he wouldn’t come downstairs so fast if he had
my build and aspect. A person with an old-gold
complexion said a man died here in the mud bath
last week that had a petrified liver--good deal such
a looking man as I am, and the same initials, and
so on, and so on.</p>

<p class='c001'>Of course, there was nothing to be uneasy about,
and I wasn’t what you may call really uneasy; but
I was not feeling very well--that is, not brisk--and
I went to bed. I suppose that that was not a good
idea, because then they had me. I started in at the
supper end of the mill and went through. I am said
to be all right now, and free from disease, but this
does not surprise me. What I have been through
in these two weeks would free a person of pretty
much everything in him that wasn’t nailed there--any
loose thing, any unattached fragment of bone,
or meat or morals, or disease, or propensities or
accomplishments, or what not. And I don’t say
but that I feel well enough, I feel better than I would
if I was dead, I reckon. And, besides, they say I
am going to build up now and come right along and
be all right. I am not saying anything, but I wish
I had enough of my diseases back to make me aware
of myself, and enough of my habits to make it
worth while to live. To have nothing the matter
with you and no habits is pretty tame, pretty colorless.
It is just the way a saint feels, I reckon; it is
at least the way he looks. I never could stand a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>saint. That reminds me that you see very few
priests around here, and yet, as I have already said,
this whole big enterprise is owned and managed by
a convent. The few priests one does see here are
dressed like human beings, and so there may be
more of them than I imagine. Fifteen priests dressed
like these could not attract as much of your attention
as would one priest at Aix-les-Bains. You cannot
pull your eye loose from the French priest as
long as he is in sight, his dress is so fascinatingly
ugly. I seem to be wandering from the subject,
but I am not. This is about the coldest place I ever
saw, and the wettest, too. This August seems like
an English November to me. Rain? Why, it seems
to like to rain here. It seems to rain every time
there is a chance. You are strictly required to be
out airing and exercising whenever the sun is shining,
so I hate to see the sun shining because I hate air
and exercise--duty air and duty exercise taken for
medicine. It seems ungenuine, out of season,
degraded to sordid utilities, a subtle spiritual something
gone from it which one can’t describe in
words, but--don’t you understand? With that gone
what is left but canned air, canned exercise, and
you don’t want it.</p>

<p class='c001'>When the sun does shine for a few moments or
a few hours these people swarm out and flock through
the streets and over the hills and through the pine
woods, and make the most of the chance, and I have
flocked out, too, on some of these occasions, but as
a rule I stay in and try to get warm.</p>

<p class='c001'>And what is there for means, besides heavy clothing
<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>and rugs, and the polished white tomb that
stands lofty and heartless in the corner and thinks
it is a stove? Of all the creations of human insanity
this thing is the most forbidding. Whether it is
heating the room or isn’t, the impression is the
same--cold indifference. You can’t tell which it is
doing without going and putting your hand on it.
They burn little handfuls of kindlings in it, no substantial
wood, and no coal.</p>

<p class='c001'>The fire burns out every fifteen minutes, and there
is no way to tell when this has happened. On these
dismal days, with the rain steadily falling, it is no
better company than a corpse. A roaring hickory
fire, with the cordial flames leaping up the chimney--But
I must not think of such things, they make a
person homesick. This is a most strange place to
come to get rid of disease.</p>

<p class='c001'>That is what you think most of the time. But in
the intervals, when the sun shines and you are tramping
the hills and are comparatively warm, you get
to be neutral, maybe even friendly. I went up to
the Aussichtthurm the other day. This is a tower
which stands on the summit of a steep hemlock
mountain here; a tower which there isn’t the least
use for, because the view is as good at the base of
it as it is at the top of it. But Germanic people are
just mad for views--they never get enough of a
view--if they owned Mount Blanc, they would
build a tower on top of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>The roads up that mountain through that hemlock
forest are hard packed and smooth, and the grades
are easy and comfortable. They are for walkers,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>not for carriages. You move through steep silence
and twilight, and you seem to be in a million-columned
temple; whether you look up the hill or
down it you catch glimpses of distant figures flitting
without sound, appearing and disappearing in the
dim distances, among the stems of the trees, and it
is all very spectral, and solemn and impressive. Now
and then the gloom is accented and sized up to your
comprehension in a striking way; a ray of sunshine
finds its way down through and suddenly calls your
attention, for where it falls, far up the hillslope in
the brown duskiness, it lays a stripe that has a
glare like lightning. The utter stillness of the forest
depths, the soundless hush, the total absence of stir
or motion of any kind in leaf or branch, are things
which we have no experience of at home, and consequently
no name for in our language. At home
there would be the plaint of insects and the twittering
of birds and vagrant breezes would quiver the
<a id='corr122.20'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='foilage'>foliage</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_122.20'><ins class='correction' title='foilage'>foliage</ins></a></span>. Here it is the stillness of death. This is
what the Germans are forever talking about, dreaming
about, and despairingly trying to catch and
imprison in a poem, or a picture, or a song--they
adored Waldeinsamkeit, loneliness of the woods.
But how catch it? It has not a body; it is a spirit.
We don’t talk about it in America, or dream of it,
or sing about it, because we haven’t it. Certainly
there is something wonderfully alluring about it,
beguiling, dreamy, unworldly. Where the gloom is
softest and richest, and the peace and stillness
deepest, far up on the side of that hemlock mountain,
a spot where Goethe used to sit and dream,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>is marked by a granite obelisk, and on its side is
carved this famous poem, which is the master’s idea
of Waldeinsamkeit:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c016'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ueber allen Wipfeln ist Ruh,</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">In allen Wipfeln spürest du</span></div>
      <div class='line in4'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Kaum einen Hauch:</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Die Vogel in schweigen in Walde.</span></div>
      <div class='line'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Warte nur--Balde</span></div>
      <div class='line in4'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ruhest du auch.</span></div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c013'>It is raining again now. However, it was doing
that before. I have been over to the establishment
and had a tub bath with two kinds of pine juice in
it. These fill the room with a pungent and most
pleasant perfume; they also turn the water to a
color of ink and cover it with a snowy suds, two or
three inches deep. The bath is cool--about 75° or
80° F., and there is a cooler shower bath after it.
While waiting in the reception room all by myself
two men came in and began to talk. Politics, literature,
religion? No, their ailments. There is no other
subject here, apparently. Wherever two or three of
these people are gathered together, there you have
it, every time. The first that can get his mouth
open contributes his disease and the condition of it,
and the others follow with theirs. The two men
just referred to were acquaintances, and they followed
the custom. One of them was built like a gasometer
and is here to reduce his girth; the other was built
like a derrick and is here to fat up, as they express
it, at this resort. They were well satisfied with the
progress they were making. The gasometer had lost
a quarter of a ton in ten days, and showed the record
<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>on his belt with pride, and he walked briskly across
the room, smiling in a vast and luminous way, like
a harvest moon, and said he couldn’t have done that
when he arrived here. He buttoned his coat around
his equator and showed how loose it was. It was
pretty to see his happiness, it was so childlike and
honest. He set his feet together and leaned out over
his person and proved that he could see them. He
said he hadn’t seen them from that point before for
fifteen years. He had a hand like a boxing glove.
And on one of his fingers he had just found a diamond
ring which he had missed eleven years ago.</p>

<p class='c001'>The minute the derrick got a chance he broke in
and began to tell how he was piling on blubber right
along--three-quarters of an ounce every four days;
and he was still piping away when I was sent for.
I left the fat man standing there panting and blowing,
and swelling and collapsing like a balloon, his
next speech all ready and urgent for delivery.</p>

<p class='c001'>The patients are always at that sort of thing,
trying to talk one another to death. The fat ones
and the lean ones are nearly the worse at it, but not
quite; the dyspeptics are the worst. They are at
it all day and all night, and all along. They have
more symptoms than all the others put together and
so there is more variety of experience, more change
of condition, more adventure, and consequently more
play for the imagination, more scope for lying, and
in every way a bigger field to talk. Go where you
will, hide where you may, you cannot escape that
word liver; you overhear it constantly--in the
street, in the shop, in the theater, in the music
<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>grounds. Wherever you see two or a dozen people
of ordinary bulk talking together, you know they are
talking about their livers. When you first arrive
here your new acquaintances seem sad and hard to
talk to, but pretty soon you get the lay of the land
and the hand of things, and after that you haven’t
any more trouble. You look into the dreary dull
eye and softly say:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Well, how’s your liver?”</p>

<p class='c001'>You will see that dim eye flash up with a grateful
flame, and you will see that jaw begin to work, and
you will recognize that nothing is required of you
from this out but to listen as long as you remain conscious.
After a few days you will begin to notice
that out of these people’s talk a gospel is framing
itself and next you will find yourself believing it.
It is this--that a man is not what his rearing, his
schooling, his beliefs, his principles make him, he
is what his liver makes him; that with a healthy
liver he will have the clear-seeing eye, the honest
heart, the sincere mind, the loving spirit, the loyal
soul, the truth and trust and faith that are based as
Gibraltar is based, and that with an unhealthy liver
he must and will have the opposite of all these, he
will see nothing as it really is, he cannot trust anybody,
or believe in anything, his moral foundations
are gone from under him. Now, isn’t that interesting?
I think it is.</p>

<p class='c001'>One of the most curious things in these countries
is the street manners of the men and women. In
meeting you they come straight on without swerving
a hair’s breadth from the direct line and wholly ignoring
<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>your right to any part of the road. At the last
moment you must yield up your share of it and step
aside, or there will be a collision. I noticed this
strange barbarism first in Geneva twelve years ago.</p>

<p class='c001'>In Aix-les-Bains, where sidewalks are scarce and
everybody walks in the streets, there is plenty of
room, but that is no matter; you are always escaping
collisions by mere quarter inches. A man or
woman who is headed in such a way as to cross
your course presently without a collision will actually
alter his direction shade by shade and compel a
collision unless at the last instant you jump out of
the way. Those folks are not dressed as ladies and
gentlemen. And they do not seem to be consciously
crowding you out of the road; they seem to be
innocently and stupidly unaware that they are
doing it. But not so in Geneva. There this class,
especially the men, crowd out men, women, and
girls of all rank and raiment consciously and intentionally--crowd
them off the sidewalk and into the
gutter.</p>

<p class='c001'>There was nothing of this sort in Bayreuth. But
here--well, here the thing is astonishing. Collisions
are unavoidable unless you do all the yielding yourself.
Another odd thing--here this savagery is confined
to the folk who wear the fine clothes; the
others are courteous and considerate. A big burly
Comanche, with all the signs about him of wealth
and education, will tranquilly force young ladies to
step off into the gutter to avoid being run down by
him. It is a mistake that there is no bath that will
cure people’s manners. But drowning would help.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>However, perhaps one can’t look for any real
showy amount of delicacy of feeling in a country
where a person is brought up to contemplate without
a shudder the spectacle of women harnessed up
with dogs and hauling carts. The woman is on one
side of the pole, the dog on the other, and they bend
to the work and tug and pant and strain--and the
man tramps leisurely alongside and smokes his pipe.
Often the woman is old and gray, and the man is
her grandson. The Austrian national ornithological
device ought to be replaced by a grandmother harnessed
to a slush cart with a dog. This merely in
the interest of fact. Heraldic fancy has been a little
too much overworked in these countries, anyway.</p>

<p class='c001'>Lately one of those curious things happened here
which justify the felicitous extravagances of the stage
and help us to accept them. A despondent man,
bankrupt, friendless, and desperate, dropped a dose
of strychnia into a bottle of whisky and went out
in the dusk to find a handy place for his purpose,
which was suicide. In a lonely spot he was stopped
by a tramp, who said he would kill him if he didn’t
give up his money. Instead of jumping at the chance
of getting himself killed and thus saving himself the
impropriety and annoyance of suicide, he forgot all
about his late project and attacked the tramp in a
most sturdy and valiant fashion. He made a good
fight, but failed to win. The night passed, the morning
came, and he woke out of unconsciousness to
find that he had been clubbed half to death and left
to perish at his leisure. Then he reached for his
bottle to add the finishing touch, but it was gone. He
<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>pulled himself together and went limping away, and
presently came upon the tramp stretched out stone
dead with the empty bottle beside him. He had
drunk the whisky and committed suicide innocently.
Now, while the man who had been cheated out of
his suicide stood there bemoaning his hard luck and
wondering how he might manage to raise money
enough to buy some more whisky and poison, some
people of the neighborhood came by and he told
them about his curious adventure. They said that
this tramp had been the scourge of the neighborhood
and the dread of the constabulary. The inquest
passed off quietly and to everybody’s satisfaction,
and then the people, to testify their gratitude to the
hero of the occasion, put him on the police, on a
good-enough salary, and he is all right now and is
not meditating suicide any more. Here are all the
elements of the naïvest Arabian tale; a man who
resists robbery when he hasn’t anything to be robbed
of does the very best to save his life when he has
come out purposely to throw it away; and finally is
victorious in defeat, killing his adversary in an effectual
and poetic fashion after being already hors du
combat himself. Now if you let him rise in the service
and marry the chief of police’s daughter it has the
requisite elements of the Oriental romance, lacking
not a detail so far as I can see.</p>
<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>DOWN THE RHÔNE <br /> <span class='small'>(1891)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>In old times a summer sail down the Rhône was a
favorite trip with travelers. But that day is long
gone by. The conveniences for the sail disappeared
many years ago--driven out of existence by the
railway.</p>

<p class='c001'>In August, 1891, I made this long-neglected voyage
with a boatman and a courier. The following account
of it is part diary and part comment. The main idea
of the voyage was, not to see sights, but to rest up
from sight-seeing. There was little or nothing on
the Rhône to examine or study or write didactically
about; consequently, to glide down the stream in
an open boat, moved by the current only, would
afford many days of lazy repose, with opportunity
to smoke, read, doze, talk, accumulate comfort, get
fat, and all the while be out of reach of the news and
remote from the world and its concerns.</p>

<p class='c001'>Our point of departure was to be the Castle of
Châtillon on Lake Bourget, not very far from Aix-les-Bains.
I went down from Geneva by rail on a
Saturday afternoon, and reached the station nearest
the castle during the evening. I found the courier
waiting for me. He had been down in the lake
region several days, hunting for a boat, engaging
the boatman, etc.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span><i>From my log.</i>--The luggage was given to the porters--a
couple of peasant girls of seventeen or
eighteen years, and a couple of younger ones--children,
one might say, of twelve or thirteen. It
consisted of heavy satchels and holdalls, but they
gathered it up and trudged away, not seeming to
mind the weight. The road was through woods and
uphill--dark and steep and long. I tried to take
the heavy valise from the smallest one, telling her I
would carry it myself. She did not understand, of
course, and resisted. I tried, then, to take the bag
by gentle force. This alarmed her. The courier
came and explained that she was afraid she was
going to lose the trifle of money she was earning.</p>

<p class='c001'>The courier told her this was not the case, but
she looked doubtful and concluded to hang on to a
sure thing.</p>

<p class='c001'>“How much is it she’s going to get?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“She will charge about half a franc.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Then pay her <em>now</em>, and she’ll give up the bag.”</p>

<p class='c001'>But that scheme failed, too. The child hung to
the bag and seemed distressed. No explanation
could be got out of her, but one of the other girls
said the child was afraid that if she gave it up, the
fact would be used against her with tourists as proof
that she was not strong enough to carry their luggage
for them, and so she would lose chances to get work.</p>

<p class='c001'>By and by the winding road carried us by an open
space where we could see very well--see the ruins
of a burned-out little hamlet of the humblest sort--stone
walls with empty window holes, narrow alleys
cluttered with wreckage and fallen thatch, etc. Our
<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>girls were eager to have us stop and view this wonder,
the result of the only conflagration they had ever
seen, the only large event that had ever accented
their monotonous lives. It had happened a couple
of months before, and the villagers had lost everything,
even to their stockings of savings, and were
too poor to rebuild their houses. A young woman,
an old one, and all the horses had been burned to
death; the young girls said they could take us among
the ruins and show us the very spot.</p>

<p class='c001'>We finally came out on the top of the hill, and
there stood the castle, a rather picturesque old
stack of masonry with a walled yard about it and
an odd old stumpy tower in a corner of the yard
handsomely clothed in vines. The castle is a private
residence, whose owner leaves it in charge
of his housekeeper and some menservants, and
lives in Lyons except when he wants to fish or
shoot.</p>

<p class='c001'>The courier had engaged rooms, but the fact had
probably been forgotten, for we had trouble in rousing
the garrison. It was getting late and they were
asleep. Eventually a man unlocked and unbarred
the door and led us up a winding stair of heavy and
very plain stonework. My bed was higher from the
floor than necessary. This is apparently the rule in
old French houses of the interior. But there is a
stepladder.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the morning I looked out of my window and
saw the tops of trees below me, thick and beautiful
foliage, and below the trees was the bright blue
water of the lake shining in the sun. The window
<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>seemed to be about two hundred feet above the
water. An airy and inspiring situation, indeed. A
pope was born in that room a couple of centuries
ago. I forget his name.</p>

<p class='c001'>In that old day they built for utility, this was
evident. Everything--floors, sashes, shutters, beams,
joists--were cheap, coarse, ornamentless, but everlastingly
solid and substantial. On the wall hung
an indication of the politics of the present owner.
This was a small photograph with “Philippe Comte
de Paris” written under it.</p>

<p class='c001'>The castle was ancient, in its way, but over the
door of one of its rooms there was a picture set in a
frame whose profound antiquity made all its surroundings
seem modern and fresh. This frame was
of good firm oak, as black as a coal, and had once
been part of a lake-dweller’s house. It was already
a thing of antiquity when the Romans were planting
colonies in France before the time of Christ. The
remains of a number of lake villages have been dug
out of the mud of Lake Bourget.</p>

<p class='c001'>Breakfast was served in the open air on a precipice
in a little arbor sheltered by vines, with glimpses
through the tree tops of the blue water far below,
and with also a wide prospect of mountain scenery.
The coffee was the best I ever drank in Europe.</p>

<p class='c001'>Presently there was a bugle blast from somewhere
about the battlements--a fine Middle Age effect--and
after a moment it was answered from the
further shore of the lake, and we saw a boat put
out from that shore. It was ours. We were soon
on board and away.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>It was a roomy, long flatboat, very light and easy
to manage--easy to manage because its sides tapered
a little toward both ends, and both ends curved up
free from the water and made the steering prompt
and easy. The rear half was sheltered from sun and
rain by a temporary (and removable) canopy
stretched over hoop-pole arches, after the fashion
of the old-time wagon covers of the emigrants to
California. We at once rolled the sides of the
canopy high up, so that we might have the breeze
and a free view on every hand.</p>

<p class='c001'>On the other side of the lake we entered a narrow
canal, and here we had our last glimpse of that
picturesque Châtillon perched on its high promontory.
The sides of the canal were walled with vines
heavily laden with black grapes. The vine leaves
were white with the stuff which is squirted on them
from a thing like a fire extinguisher to kill the
calamitous phylloxera. We saw only one living creature
for the first lonely mile--a man with his extinguisher
strapped on his back and hard at his deadly
work. I asked our admiral, Joseph Rougier, of the
village of Chanaz, if it would be a good idea to offer
to sell this Sabbath breaker a few choice samples of
foreign phylloxera, and he said yes, if one wanted to
play the star part in an inquest.</p>

<p class='c001'>At last two women and a man strolling churchward
in their Sunday best gave us a courteous hail
and walked briskly along abreast of us, plying the
courier and the sailor with eager questions about our
curious and unaccountable project, and by the time
they had got their fill and dropped astern to digest
<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>the matter and finish wondering over it, we were
serene again and busy discussing the scenery; for
now there was really some scenery to look at, of a
mild but pleasant type--low precipices, a country
road shaded by large trees, a few cozy thatched
cabins scattered along, and now and then an irruption
of joyous children who flocked to inspect us
and admire, followed by friendly dogs who stood
and barked at us, but wagged their tails to say no
offense was intended.</p>

<p class='c001'>Soon the precipice grew bolder, and presently
Chanaz came in sight and the canal bore us along
its front--along its street, for it had only one. We
stepped ashore. There was a roll of distant drums,
and soon a company or two of French infantry came
marching by. All the citizens were out, and every
male took off his hat politely as the soldiers moved
past him, and this salute was always returned by
the officers.</p>

<p class='c001'>I wanted envelopes, wine, grapes, and postage
stamps, and was directed to a stone stairway and
told to go up one flight. Up there I found a small
well-smoked kitchen paved with worn-out bricks,
with pots and pans hanging about the walls, and a
bent and humped woman of seventy cooking a very
frugal dinner. The tiredest dog I have seen this
year lay asleep under the stove, in a roasting heat,
an incredible heat, a heat that would have pulled a
remark of the Hebrew children; but the dog slept
along with perfect serenity and did not seem to
know that there was anything the matter with the
weather. The old woman set off her coffee pot.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>Next she removed her pork chop to the table; it
seemed to me that this was premature--the dog
was better done.</p>

<p class='c001'>We asked for the envelopes and things; she
motioned us to the left with her ladle. We passed
through a door and found ourselves in the smallest
wholesale and retail commercial house in the world,
I suppose. The place was not more than nine feet
square. The proprietor was polite and cheerful
enough for a place five or six times as large. He was
weighing out two ounces of parched coffee for a little
girl, and when the balances came level at last he took
off a light bean and put on a heavier one in the handsomest
way and then tied up the purchase in a piece
of paper and handed it to the child with as nice a
bow as one would see anywhere. In that shop he
had a couple of bushels of wooden shoes--a dollar’s
worth, altogether, perhaps--but he had no other
articles in such lavish profusion. Yet he had a pound
or so or a dipperful of any kind of thing a person
might want. You couldn’t buy two things of a kind
there, but you could buy one of any and every kind.
It was a useful shop, and a sufficient one, no doubt,
yet its contents could not have cost more than ten
dollars. Here was home on a small scale, but everything
comfortable, no haggard looks visible, no
financial distress apparent. I got all the things I
came for except double-postage stamps for foreign
service; I had to take domestic stamps instead.
The merchant said he kept a double-stamp in stock
a couple of years, but there was no market for it,
so he sent it back to Paris, because it was eating
<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>up its insurance. A careful man and thrifty; and
of such is the commonwealth of France.</p>

<p class='c001'>We got some hot fried fish in Chanaz and took
them aboard and cleared out. With grapes and
claret and bread they made a satisfactory luncheon.
We paddled a hundred yards, turned a rock corner,
and here was the furious gray current of the Rhône
just a-whistling by! We crept into it from the
narrow canal, and laid in the oars. The floating
was begun. One needs no oar-help in a current like
that. The shore seemed to fairly spin past. Where
the current assaults the heavy stone barriers thrown
out from the shores to protect the banks, it makes a
break like the break of a steamboat, and you can
hear the roar a couple of hundred yards off.</p>

<p class='c001'>The river where we entered it was about a hundred
yards wide, and very deep. The water was at
medium stage. The Rhône is not a very long river--six
hundred miles--but it carries a bigger mass of
water to the sea than any other French stream.</p>

<p class='c001'>For the first few miles we had lonely shores--hardly
ever a house. On the left bank we had high
precipices and domed hills; right bank low and
wooded.</p>

<p class='c001'>At one point in the face of a precipice we saw a
great cross (carved out of the living rock, the Admiral
said) forty feet above the carriage road, where a
doctor has had his tomb scooped in the rock and
lies in there safe from his surviving patients--if any.</p>

<p class='c001'>At 1.25 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span> we passed the slumbrous village of
Massigneux de Rive on the right and the ditto
village of Huissier on the left (in Savoie). We had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>to take all names by sound from the Admiral; he
said nobody could spell them. There was a ferry
at the former village. A wire is stretched across the
river high overhead; along this runs a wheel which
has ropes leading down and made fast to the ferryboat
in such a way that the boat’s head is held
farther upstream than its stern. This angle enables
the current to drive the boat across, and no other
motive force is needed. This would be a good thing
on minor rivers in America.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.10 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--It is delightfully cool, breezy, shady
(under the canopy), and still. Much smoking and
lazy reflecting. There is no sound but the rippling
of the current and the moaning of far-off breaks,
except that now and then the Admiral dips a screechy
oar to change the course half a point. In the distance
one catches the faint singing and laughter of playing
children or the softened note of a church bell or town
clock. But the reposeful stillness--that is the charm--and
the smooth swift gliding--and the fresh, clear,
lively, gray-green water. There was such a rush,
and boom, and life, and confusion, and activity in
Geneva yesterday--how remote all that seems now,
how wholly vanished away and gone out of this world!</p>

<p class='c001'>2.15.--Village of Yenne. Iron suspension bridge.
On the heights back of the town a chapel with a
tower like a thimble, and a very tall white Virgin
standing on it.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.25.--Precipices on both sides now. River narrow--sixty
yards.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.30.--Immense precipice on right bank, with
groups of buildings (Pierre Châtel) planted on the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>very edge of it. In its near neighborhood a massive
and picturesque fortification.</p>

<p class='c001'>All this narrow gut from the bridge down to the
next bridge--a mile or two--is picturesque with its
frowning high walls of rock.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the face of the precipice above the second bridge
sits a painted house on a rock bench--a chapel, we
think, but the Admiral says it is for the storage of
wine.</p>

<p class='c001'>More fortifications at the corner where the river
turns--no cannon, but narrow slits for musketry
commanding the river. Also narrow slits in the
solid (hollowed-out) precipice. Perhaps there is no
need of cannon here where you can throw a biscuit
across from precipice to precipice.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.45.--Below that second bridge. On top of the
bluffs more fortifications. Low banks on both sides
here.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.50.--Now both sets of fortifications show up,
look huge and formidable, and are finely grouped.
Through the glass they seem deserted and falling to
ruin. Out of date, perhaps.</p>

<p class='c001'>One will observe, by these paragraphs, that the
Rhône is swift enough to keep one’s view changing
with a very pleasant alacrity.</p>

<p class='c001'>At midafternoon we passed a steep and lofty
bluff--right bank--which was crowned with the
moldering ruins of a castle overgrown with trees.
A relic of Roman times, the Admiral said. Name?
No, he didn’t know any name for it. Had it a history?
Perhaps; he didn’t know. Wasn’t there even
a legend connected with it? He didn’t know of any.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>Not even a legend. One’s first impulse was to be
irritated; whereas one should be merely thankful;
for if there is one sort of invention in this world
that is flatter than another, it is the average folklore
legend. It could probably be proven that even the
adventures of the saints in the Roman calendar are
not of a lower grade as works of the inventor’s art.</p>

<p class='c001'>The dreamy repose, the infinite peace of these
tranquil shores, this Sabbath stillness, this noiseless
motion, this strange absence of the sense of sin, and
the stranger absence of the desire to commit it--this
was the perfectest day the year had brought!
Now and then we slipped past low shores with
grassy banks. A solitary thatched cottage close to
the edge, one or two big trees with dense foliage
sheltering the cottage, and the family in their Sunday,
clothes grouped in the deep shade, chatting, smoking,
knitting, the dogs asleep about their feet, the kittens
helping with the knitting, and all hands content and
praising God without knowing it. We always got a
friendly word of greeting and returned it. One of
these families contained eighteen sons, and all were
present. The Admiral was acquainted with everybody
along the banks, and with all the domestic
histories, notwithstanding he was so ineffectual on
old Roman matters.</p>

<p class='c001'>4.20.--Bronze statue of the Virgin on a sterile
hill slope.</p>

<p class='c001'>4.45.--Ruined Roman tower on a bluff. Belongs
to the no-name series.</p>

<p class='c001'>5.--Some more Roman ruins in the distance.</p>

<p class='c001'>At 6 o’clock we rounded to. We stepped ashore
<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>in a woodsy and lonely place and walked a short
mile through a country lane to the sizable and rather
modern-looking village of St.-Genix. Part of the way
we followed another pleasure party--six or eight
little children riding aloft on a mountain of fragrant
hay. This is the earliest form of the human pleasure
excursion, and for utter joy and perfect contentment
it stands alone in a man’s threescore years and ten;
all that come after it have flaws, but this has
none.</p>

<p class='c001'>We put up at the Hôtel Labully, in the little
square where the church stands. Satisfactory dinner.
Later I took a twilight tramp along the high
banks of a moist ditch called the Guires River. If
it was my river I wouldn’t leave it outdoors nights,
in this careless way, where any dog can come along
and lap it up. It is a tributary of the Rhône when
it is in better health.</p>

<p class='c001'>It became dark while we were on our way back,
and then the bicyclers gave us many a sudden chill.
They never furnished us an early warning, but
delivered the paralyzing shock of their rubber-horn
hoot right at our shoulder blades and then flashed
spectrally by on their soundless wheels and floated
into the depths of the darkness and vanished from
sight before a body could collect his remark and
get it out. Sometimes they get shot. This is right.</p>

<p class='c001'>I went to my room, No. 16. The floor was bare,
which is the rule down the Rhône. Its planks were
light colored, and had been smoothed by use rather
than art; they had conspicuous black knots in them.
The usual high and narrow bed was there, with the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>usual little marble-topped commode by the head of
it and the usual strip of foot carpet alongside, where
you climb in. The wall paper was dark--which is
usual on the Continent; even in the northern regions
of Germany, where the daylight in winter is of such
poor quality that they don’t even tax it now.</p>

<p class='c001'>When I woke in the morning it was eight o’clock
and raining hard, so I stayed in bed and had my
breakfast and a ripe old Paris paper of last week
brought up. It was a good breakfast--one often gets
that; and a liberal one--one seldom gets that. There
was a big bowl for the coffee instead of a stingy cup
which has to be refilled just as you are getting interested
in it; there was a quart of coffee in the pot
instead of a scant half pint; instead of the usual
hollow curl of brittle butter which evades you when
you try to scoop it on to the knife and crumbles when
you try to carve it, there was a solid cream-colored
lump as big as a brick; there was abundance of hot
milk, and there was also the usual ostensible cream
of Europe. There <em>must</em> be cream in Europe somewhere,
but it is not in the cows; they have been
examined.</p>

<p class='c001'>The rain continued to pour until noon, then the
sun burst out and we were soon up and filing through
the village. By the time we had tramped our mile
and pushed out into the stream, the watches marked
1.10 and the day was brilliant and perfect.</p>

<p class='c001'>Over on the right were ruins of two castles, one of
them of some size.</p>

<p class='c001'>We passed under a suspension bridge; alongside
of it was an iron bridge of a later pattern. Near by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>was a little steamer lying at the bank with no signs
of life about her--the first boat, except ferryboats,
encountered since we had entered the Rhône. A
lonely river, truly.</p>

<p class='c001'>We drifted past lofty highlands, but there was
nothing inspiring about them. In Switzerland the
velvet heights are sprinkled with homes clear to the
clouds, but these hills were sterile, desolate, gray,
melancholy, and so thin was the skin on them that
the rocky bones showed through in places.</p>

<p class='c001'>1.30.--We seem lost in the intricate channels of
an archipelago of flat islands covered with bushes.</p>

<p class='c001'>1.50.--We whirl around a corner into open river
again, and observe that a vast bank of leaden clouds
is piling itself up on the horizon; the tint thrown
upon the distant stretches of water is rich and fine.</p>

<p class='c001'>The river is wide now--a hundred and fifty yards--and
without islands. Suddenly it has become
nearly currentless and is like a lake. The Admiral
explains that from this point for nine miles it is
called L’Eau Morte--Dead Water.</p>

<p class='c001'>The region is not entirely barren of life, it seems--solitary
woman paddling a punt across the wide still
pool.</p>

<p class='c001'>The boat moved, but that is about all one could
say. It was indolent progress; still, it was comfortable.
There were flaming sunshine behind and
that rich thunder gloom ahead, and now and then
the fitful fanning of a pleasant breeze.</p>

<p class='c001'>A woman paddled across--a rather young woman
with a face like the “Mona Lisa.” I had seen the
“Mona Lisa” only a little while before, and stood
<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>two hours in front of that painting, repeating to
myself: “People come from around the globe to
stand here and worship. What is it they find in
it?” To me it was merely a serene and subdued face,
and there an end. There might be more in it, but
I could not find it. The complexion was bad; in
fact, it was not even human; there are no people of
that color. I finally concluded that maybe others still
saw in the picture faded and vanished marvels which
<em>had</em> been there once and were now forever vanished.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then I remembered something told me once by
Noel Flagg,<a id='r3' /><a href='#f3' class='c022'><sup>[3]</sup></a> the artist. There was a time, he said,
when he wasn’t yet an artist but thought he was.
His pictures sold, and gave satisfaction, and that
seemed a good-enough verdict. One day he was
daubing away in his studio and feeling good and
inspired, when Dr. Horace Bushnell, that noble old
Roman, straggled in there without an invitation and
fastened that deep eye of his on the canvas. The
youth was proud enough of such a call, and glad
there was something on the easel that was worthy
of it. After a long look the great divine said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“You have talent, boy.” (That sounded good.)
“What you want is teaching.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Teaching--he, an accepted and competent artist!
He didn’t like that. After another long look:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Do you know the higher mathematics?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“I? No, sir.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“You must acquire them.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“As a proper part of an artist’s training?”
This with veiled irony.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>“As an <em>essential</em> part of it. Do you know
anatomy?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“No, sir.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“You must learn how to dissect a body.  What
are you studying, now--principally?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Nothing, I believe.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“And the time flying, the time flying!  Where
are your books? What do you read?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“There they are, on the shelves.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“I see. Poetry and romance. They must wait.
Get to your mathematics and your anatomy right
away. Another point: you must train your eye--you
must teach yourself to see.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Teach myself to see? I believe I was born with
that ability.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“But nobody is born with a <em>trained</em> ability--nobody.
A cow sees--she sees all the outsides of
things, no doubt, but it is only the trained eye that
sees deeper, sees the soul of them, the meaning of
them, the spiritual essence. Are you sure that you
see more than the cow sees? You must go to Paris.
You will never learn to see here. There they’ll
teach you; there they’ll train you; there they’ll
work you like a slave; there they’ll bring out the
talent that’s in you. Be off! Don’t twaddle here
any longer!”</p>

<p class='c001'>Flagg thought it over and resolved that the advice
was worth taking. He and his brother cleared for
Paris. They put in their first afternoon there scoffing
at the works of the old masters in the Louvre.
They laughed at themselves for crossing a wide
ocean to learn what masterly painting might be by
<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>staring at these odious things. As for the “Mona
Lisa,” they exhausted their treasure of wit in making
fun of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>Next day they put themselves into the hands of
the Beaux Arts people, and that was the end of
play. They had to start at the very bottom of their
trade and learn it over again, detail by detail, and
learn it <em>right</em>, this time. They slaved away, night
and day for three months, and wore themselves to
shadows. Then they had a day off, and drifted
into the Louvre. Neither said a word for some time;
each disliked to begin; but at last, in front of the
“Mona Lisa,” after standing mute awhile one of
them said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Speak out. Say it.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Say it yourself.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Well, then, we <em>were</em> cows before!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Yes--it’s the right name for it. That is what
we were. It is unbelievable, the change that has
come over these pictures in three months. It is the
difference between a landscape in the twilight and
the same landscape in the daytime.” Then they fell
into each other’s arms.</p>

<p class='c001'>This all came back to me, now, as I saw this living
“Mona Lisa” punting across L’Eau Morte.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.40 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--Made for a village on the right bank
with all speed--Port de Groslee. Remains of Roman
aqueduct on hilltop back of village. Rain!--Deluges
of it. Took refuge in an inn on the bank--Hôtel
des Voyageurs. The public room was full
of voyageurs and tobacco smoke. The voyageurs
may have been river folk in the old times when the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>inn was built, but this present crowd was made up
of teamsters. They sat at bare tables, under their
feet was the bare floor, about them were the four
bare walls--a dreary place at any time, a heart-breaking
place now in the dark of the downpour.
However, it was manifestly not dreary to the teamsters.
They were sipping red wine and smoking;
they all talked at once, and with great energy and
spirit, and every now and then they gave their
thighs a sounding slap and burst into a general
horse laugh. The courier said that this was in
response to rude wit and coarse anecdotes. The
brace of modest-looking girls who were waiting on
the teamsters did not seem troubled. The courier
said that they were used to all kinds of language
and were not defiled by it; that they had probably
seldom heard a spade called anything but a spade,
therefore the foulest words came innocent to their
ears.</p>

<p class='c001'>This inn was built of stone--of course; everybody’s
house on the Continent, from palace to
hovel, is built of that dismal material, and as a
rule it is as square as a box and odiously plain and
destitute of ornament; it is formal, forbidding, and
breeds melancholy thoughts in people used to friendlier
and more perishable materials of construction.
The frame house and the log house molder and pass
away, even in the builder’s time, and this makes a
proper bond of sympathy and fellowship between
the man and his home; but the stone house remains
always the same to the person born in it; in his old
age it is still as hard, and indifferent, and unaffected
<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>by time as it was in the long-vanished days of his
childhood. The other kind of house shows by many
touching signs that it has noted his griefs and misfortunes
and has felt for them, but the stone house
doesn’t--it is not of his evanescent race, it has no
kinship with him, nor any interest in him.</p>

<p class='c001'>A professional letter writer happened along presently,
and one of the young girls got him to write
a letter for her. It seemed strange that she could
not write it herself. The courier said that the peasant
women of the Rhône do not care for education, but
only for religion; that they are all good Catholics,
and that their main ambition in life is to see the
Rhône’s long procession of stone and bronze Virgins
added to, until the river shall be staked out with
them from end to end; and that their main pleasure
in life is to contribute from their scant centimes to
this gracious and elevating work. He says it is a
quite new caprice; that ten years ago there was not
a Virgin in this part of France at all, and never had
been. This may be true, and, of course, there is
nothing unreasonable about it, but I have already
found out that the courier’s statements are not
always exact.</p>

<p class='c001'>I had a hot fried fish and coffee in a garden shed
roofed with a mat of vines, but the rain came
through in streams and I got drenched in spite of
our umbrellas, for one cannot manage table implements
and umbrellas all at the same time with
anything like good success.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Mem.</i>--Last evening, for economy’s sake, proposed
to be a Frenchman because Americans and English
<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>are always overcharged. Courier said it wouldn’t
deceive unless I played myself for a deaf-and-dumb
Frenchman--which I did, and so the rooms were
only a franc and a half each. But the Admiral
must have let it out that I was only deaf and dumb
in French, for prices were raised in the bill this
morning.</p>

<p class='c001'>4.10 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--Left Port de Groslee.</p>

<p class='c001'>4.50 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--Château of the Count Cassiloa--or
something like that--the Admiral’s pronunciation
is elusive. Courier guesses the spelling at “Quintionat.”
I don’t quite see the resemblance. This
courier’s confidence in himself is a valuable talent.
He must be descended from the idiot who taught
our forefathers to spell tizzik with a <i>ph</i> and a <i>th</i>.</p>

<p class='c001'>The river here is as still and smooth and nearly as
dead as a lake. The water is swirly, though, and
consequently makes uneasy steering.</p>

<p class='c001'>River seems to draw together and greatly narrow
itself below the count’s house. No doubt the current
will smarten up there.</p>

<p class='c001'>Three new quarries along here. Dear me! how
little there is in the way of sight-seeing, when a
quarry is an event! Remarked upon with contentment.</p>

<p class='c001'>Swept through the narrow canallike place with a
good current.</p>

<p class='c001'>On the left-hand point below, bush-grown ruins
of an ancient convent (St. Alban’s), picturesquely
situated on a low bluff. There is a higher and handsomer
bluff a trifle lower down. How did they
overlook it? Those people generally went for the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>best, not second best. Shapely hole in latter bluff
one hundred feet above the water--anchorite’s nest?
Interesting-looking hole, and would have cost but
little time and trouble to examine it, but it was not
done. It is no matter; one can find other holes.</p>

<p class='c001'>At last, below bluffs, we find some greensward--not
extensive, but a pleasant novelty.</p>

<p class='c001'>5.30.--Lovely sunset. Mottled clouds richly
painted by sinking sun, and fleecy shreds of clouds
drifting along the fronts of neighboring blue mountains.
Harrow in a field. Apparently harrow, but
was distant and could not tell; could have been a
horse.</p>

<p class='c001'>5.35.--Very large gray broken-arched and unusually
picturesque ruin crowning a hilltop on right.
Name unknown. This is a liberal mile above village
of Briord (my spelling--the Admiral’s pronunciation),
on same side. Passed the village swiftly, and
left it behind. The villagers came out and made fun
of our strange tub. The dogs chased us and were
more noisy than necessary.</p>

<p class='c001'>6 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--Another suspension bridge--this is the
sixth one. They have ceased to interest. There
was nothing exciting about them, from the start.
Presently landed on left bank and shored the boat
for the night. Hôtel du Rhône Moine. Isolated.
Situated right on the bank. Sort of a village--villagette,
to be exact--a little back. Hôtel is two
stories high and not pretentious--family dwelling
and cow stable all under one roof.</p>

<p class='c001'>I had been longing to have personal experience
of peasant life--be “on the inside” and see it for
<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>myself, instead of at second hand in books. This
was an opportunity and I was excited about it and
glad. The kitchen was not clean, but it was a
sociable place, and the family were kind and full
of good will. There were three little children, a
young girl, father, mother, grandparents, some dogs,
and a plurality of cats. There was no discord; perfect
harmony prevailed.</p>

<p class='c001'>Our table was placed on the lawn on the river
bank. One had no right to expect any finer style
here than he would find in the cheapest and shabbiest
little tavern in America, for the Hôtel du Rhône
Moine was for foot wanderers and laborers on the
flatboats that convey stone and sand and wood to
Lyons, yet the style <em>was</em> superior--very much so.
The tablecloth was white, and it and the table
furniture were perfectly clean. We had a fish of a
pretty coarse grain, but it was fresh from the river
and hot from the pan; the bread was good, there
was abundance of excellent butter, the milk was
rich and pure, the sugar was white, the coffee was
considerably better than that which is furnished
by the choice hotels of the capitals of the Continent.
Thus far, peasant life was a disappointment, it was
so much better than anything we were used to at
home in some respects. Two of the dogs came out,
presently, and sat down by the table and rested
their chins on it, and so remained. It was not to
beg, for they showed no interest in the supper; they
were merely there to be friendly, it was the only
idea they had. A squadron of cats came out by
and by and sat down in the neighborhood and looked
<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>me over languidly, then wandered away without
passion, in fact with what looked like studied indifference.
Even the cats and the dogs are well and
sufficiently fed at the Hôtel du Rhône Moine--their
dumb testimony was as good as speech.</p>

<p class='c001'>I went to bed early. It is inside the house, not
outside, that one really finds the peasant life. Our
rooms were over the stable, and this was not an
advantage. The cows and horses were not very
quiet, the smell was extraordinary, the fleas were a
disorderly lot, and these things helped the coffee to
keep one awake. The family went to bed at nine
and got up at two. The beds were very high; one
could not climb into them without the help of a
chair; and as they were narrow and arched, there
was danger of rolling out in case one drifted into
dreams of an imprudent sort. These lofty bedsteads
were not high from caprice, but for a purpose--they
contained chests of drawers, and the drawers were
full of clothing and other family property. On the
table in my room were some bright-colored, even
gorgeous little waxen saints and a Virgin under bell-glasses;
also the treasures of the house--jewelry
and a silver watch. It was not costly jewelry, but
it was jewelry, at any rate, and without doubt the
family valued it. I judged that this household were
accustomed to having honest guests and neighbors
or they would have removed these things from the
room when I entered it, for I do not look honester
than others.</p>

<p class='c001'>Not that I have always thought in this way about
myself, for I haven’t. I thought the reverse until
<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>the time I lost my overcoat, once, when I was going
down to New York to see the Water Color exhibition,
and had a sort of adventure in consequence.
The house had been robbed in the night, and when I
came downstairs to rush for the early train there
was no overcoat. It was a raw day, and when I got
to New York at noon I grew colder and colder as I
walked along down the Avenue. When I reached
East Thirty-fourth street I stopped on the corner
and began to consider. It seemed to me that it
must have been just about there that Smith,<a id='r4' /><a href='#f4' class='c022'><sup>[4]</sup></a> the
artist, took me one winter’s night, with others,
five years before, and caroused us with roasted
oysters and Southern stories and hilarity in his
fourth story until three or four in the morning; and
now if I could only call to mind which of those
houses over the way was his, I could borrow an
overcoat. All the time that I was thinking and
standing there and trying to recollect, I was dimly
conscious of a figure near me, but only dimly, very
dimly; but now as I came out of my reverie and
found myself gazing, rapt but totally unconscious,
at one of the houses over there, that figure solidified
itself and became at once the most conspicuous
thing in the landscape. It was a policeman. He
was standing not six feet away, and was gazing as
intently at my face as I had been gazing at the house.
I was embarrassed--it is always embarrassing to
come to yourself and find a stranger staring at you.
You blush, even when you have not been doing any
<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>harm. So I blushed--a thing that does not commend
a person to a policeman; also I tried to smile a
placating smile, but it did not get any response, so
then I tried to make it a kind of friendly smile,
which was a mistake, because that only hardens a
policeman, and I saw at once that this smile had
hardened this one and made my situation more
difficult than ever; and so, naturally, my judgment
being greatly impaired by now, I spoke--which
was an error, because in these circumstances
one cannot arrange without reflection a remark
which will not seem to have a kind of suspicious
something about it to a policeman, and that was
what happened this time; for I had fanned up that
haggard smile again, which had been dying out
when I wasn’t noticing, and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Could you tell me, please, if there’s a Mr. Smith
lives over there in----”</p>

<p class='c001'>“<em>What</em> Smith?”</p>

<p class='c001'>That rude abruptness drove his other name out
of my mind; and as I saw I never should be able
to think of it with the policeman standing there
cowing me with his eye, that way, it seemed to me
best to get out a name of some kind, so as to avert
further suspicion, therefore I brought out the first
one which came into my mind, which was John--another
error. The policeman turned purple--apparently
with a sense of injury and insult--and said
there were a million John Smiths in New York, and
<em>which</em> one was this? Also what did I want with
Smith? I could not remember--the overcoat was
gone out of my mind. So I told him he was a pupil
<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>of mine and that I was giving him lessons in morals;
moral culture--a new system.</p>

<p class='c001'>That was a lucky hit, anyway. I was merely
despicable, now, to the policeman, but harmless--I
could see it in his eye. He looked me over a moment
then said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“You give him lessons, do you?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“How long have you been giving him lessons?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Two years, next month.” I was getting my
wind again, and confidence.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Which house does he live in?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“That one--the middle one in the block.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Then what did you ask <em>me</em> for, a minute ago?”</p>

<p class='c001'>I did not see my way out. He waited for an
answer, but got tired before I could think of one
that would fit the case and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“How is it that you haven’t an overcoat on, such
a day as this?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“I--well, I never wear them. It doesn’t seem
cold to me.”</p>

<p class='c001'>He thought awhile, with his eye on me, then said,
with a sort of sigh:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Well, maybe you are all right--I don’t know--but
you want to walk pretty straight while you are
on my beat; for, morals or no morals, blamed if I
take much stock in you. Move on, now.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Then he turned away, swinging his club by its
string. But his eye was over his shoulder, my way;
so I had to cross to that house, though I didn’t
want to, any more. I did not expect it to be Smith’s
house, now that I was so out of luck, but I thought
<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>I would ring and ask, and if it proved to be some one
else’s house, then I would explain that I had come to
examine the gas meter and thus get out the back
way and be all right again. The door was opened
by a middle-aged matron with a gentle and friendly
face, and she had a sweet serenity about her that
was a notable contrast to my nervous flurry. I asked
after Smith and if he lived there, and to my surprise
and gratitude she said that this was his home.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Can I see him? Can I see him right away--immediately?”</p>

<p class='c001'>No; he was gone downtown. My rising hopes
fell to ruin.</p>

<p class='c001'>“Then can I see Mrs. Smith?”</p>

<p class='c001'>But alas and alas! she was gone downtown with
him. In my distress I was suddenly smitten by one
of those ghastly hysterical inspirations, you know,
when you want to do an insane thing just to astonish
and petrify somebody; so I said, with a rather overdone
pretense of playful ease and assurance:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Ah, this is a very handsome overcoat on the
hat rack--be so good as to lend it to me for a day
or two!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“With pleasure,” she said--and she had the coat
on me before I knew what had happened. It had
been my idea to astonish and petrify her, but I was
the person astonished and petrified, myself. So
astonished and so petrified, in fact, that I was out
of the house and gone, without a thank-you or a
question, before I came to my senses again. Then
I drifted slowly along, reflecting--reflecting pleasantly.
I said to myself, “She simply divined my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>character by my face--what a far clearer intuition
she had than that policeman.” The thought sent
a glow of self-satisfaction through me.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then a hand was laid on my shoulder and I
shrank together with a crash. It was the policeman.
He scanned me austerely and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Where did you get that overcoat?”</p>

<p class='c001'>Although I had not been doing any harm, I had
all the sense of being caught--caught in something
disreputable. The officer’s accusing eye and unbelieving
aspect heightened this effect. I told what
had befallen me at the house in as straightforward a
way as I could, but I was ashamed of the tale, and
looked it, without doubt, for I knew and felt how
improbable it must necessarily sound to anybody,
particularly a policeman. Manifestly he did not
believe me. He made me tell it all over again, then
he questioned me:</p>

<p class='c001'>“You don’t know the woman?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“No, I don’t know her.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Haven’t the least idea who she is?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Not the least.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“You didn’t tell her your name?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“No.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“She didn’t ask for it?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“No.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“You just asked her to lend you the overcoat,
and she let you take it?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“She put it on me herself.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“And didn’t look frightened?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Frightened? Of course not.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Not even surprised?”</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>“Not in the slightest degree.”</p>

<p class='c001'>He paused. Presently he said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“My friend, I don’t believe a word of it. Don’t
you see, yourself, it’s a tale that won’t wash? Do
<em>you</em> believe it?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Yes. I know it’s true.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Weren’t you surprised?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Clear through to the marrow!”</p>

<p class='c001'>He had been edging me along back to the house.
He had a deep design; he sprung it on me now.
Said he:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Stop where you are. I’ll mighty soon find out!”</p>

<p class='c001'>He walked to the door and up the steps, keeping
a furtive eye out toward me and ready to jump for
me if I ran. Then he pretended to pull the bell, and
instantly faced about to observe the effect on me.
But there wasn’t any; I walked toward him instead
of running away. That unsettled him. He came
down the steps, evidently perplexed, and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Well, I can’t make it out. It may be all right,
but it’s too many for me. I don’t like your looks
and I won’t have such characters around. Go along,
now, and look sharp. If I catch you prowling around
here again I’ll run you <em>in</em>.”</p>

<p class='c001'>I found Smith at the Water Color dinner that
night, and asked him if it were merely my face that
had enabled me to borrow the overcoat from a
stranger, but he was surprised and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“No! What an idea--and what intolerable conceit!
She is my housekeeper, and remembered your
drawling voice from overhearing it a moment that
night four or five years ago in my house; so she knew
<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>where to send the police if you didn’t bring the coat
back!”</p>

<p class='c001'>After all those years I was sitting here, now, at
midnight in the peasant hotel, in my night clothes,
and honoring womankind in my thoughts; for here
was another woman, with the noble and delicate
intuitions of her sex, trusting me, a total stranger,
with all her modest wealth. She entered the room,
just then, and stood beaming upon me a moment with
her sweet matronly eyes--then took away the jewelry.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Tuesday, September 22d.</i>--Breakfast in open air.
Extra canvas was now to be added to the boat’s
hood to keep the passengers and valises better protected
during rainstorms. I passed through the villagette
and started to walk over the wooded hill, the
boat to find us on the river bank somewhere below,
by and by. I soon got lost among the high bushes
and turnip gardens. Plenty of paths, but none went
to river. Reflection. Decision--that the path most
traveled was the one leading in the right direction.
It was a poor conclusion. I got lost again; this time
worse than before. But a peasant of above eighty
(as she said, and certainly she was very old and
wrinkled and gray and bent) found me presently and
undertook to guide me safely. She was vigorous,
physically, prompt and decided of movement, and
altogether soldierlike; and she had a hawk’s eye
and beak, and a gypsy’s complexion. She said that
from her girlhood up to not so very many years ago
she had done a man’s work on a woman’s pay on
the big keel boats that carry stone down the river,
and was as good a man as the best, in the matter
<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>of handling stone. Said she had seen the great
Napoleon when she was a little child. Her face was
so wrinkled and dark and so eaglelike that she reminded
me of old Indians one sees out on the Great
Plains--the outside signs of age, but in the eye an
indestructible spirit. She had a couple of laden
baskets with her which I had found heavy after
three minutes’ carrying, when she was finding the
way for me, but they seemed nothing to her. She
impressed one rather as a man than as a woman;
and so, when she spoke of her child that was drowned,
and her voice broke a little and her lip quivered, it
surprised me; I was not expecting it. “Grandchild?”
No--it was her own child. “Indeed? When?” So
then it came out that it was sixty years ago. It
seemed strange that she should mind it so long. But
that was the woman of it, no doubt. She had a fragment
of newspaper--religious--with rude holy woodcuts
in it and doubtful episodes in the lives of mediæval
saints and anchorites--and she could read these
instructive matters in fine print without glasses; also,
her eyes were as good at long distances. She led
hither and thither among the paths and finally
brought me out overlooking the river. There was a
steep sandy frontage there, where there had recently
been a small landslide, and the faint new path ran
straight across it for forty feet, like a slight snow
track along the slant of a very steep roof. I halted
and declined. I had no mind to try the crumbly
path and creep and quake along it with the boiling
river--and maybe some rocks--under my elbow
thirty feet below. Such places turn my stomach.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>The old woman took note of me, understood, and
said what sounded like, “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>Lass’ ma allez au premier</i></span>”--then
she tramped briskly and confidently across
with her baskets, sending miniature avalanches of
sand and gravel down into the river with each step.
One of her feet plowed from under her, about midway,
but she snatched it back and marched on, not
seeming to mind it. My pride urged me to move
along, and put me to shame. After a time the old
woman came back and coaxed me to try, and did at
last get me started in her wake and I got as far as
midway all right; but then to hearten me still more
and show me how easy and safe it was, she began to
prance and dance her way along, with her knuckles
in her hips, kicking a landslide loose with every skip.
The exhibition struck a cold panic through me and
made my brain swim. I leaned against the slope and
said I would stay there until the boat came and testified
as to whether there were rocks under me or
not. For the third time in my life I was in that
kind of a fix--in a place where I could not go backward
or forward, and mustn’t stay where I was. The
boat was a good while coming, but it seemed longer
than that. Where I was, the slope was like a roof;
where the slope ended the wall was perpendicular
thence to the water, and one could not see over and
tell what the state of things might be down there.
When the boat came along, the courier said there
was nothing down there but deep water--no rocks.
I did not mind the water; so my fears disappeared,
now, and I finished my march without discomfort.
I gave the old woman some money, which pleased
<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>her very much and she tried her grateful best to
give us a partridge, newly killed, which she rummaged
out of one of her baskets, and seemed disappointed
when I would not take it. But I couldn’t;
it would have been a shabby act. Then she went
her way with her heavy baskets and I got aboard
and afloat once more, feeling a great respect for her
and very friendly toward her. She waved a good-by
every now and then till her figure faded out in the
plain, joining that interminable procession of friends
made and lost in an hour that drifts past a man’s
life from cradle to grave and returns on its course no
more. The courier said she was probably a poacher
and stole the partridge.</p>

<p class='c001'>The courier was not able to understand why I had
not nerve enough to walk along a crumbling slope
with a precipice only thirty feet high below me; but
I had no difficulty in understanding it. It is constitutional
with me to get nervous and incapable under
the probability of getting myself dropped thirty feet
on to a pile of rocks; it does not come from culture.
Some people are made in one way, and some in
another--and the above is my way. Some people
who can skirt precipices without a tremor have a
strong dread of the dentist’s chair, whereas I was
born without any prejudices against the dentist’s
chair; when in it I am interested, am not in a hurry,
and do not greatly mind the pain. Taken by and
large, my style of make has advantages over the
other, I think. Few of us are obliged to circumnavigate
precipices, but we all have to take a chance
at the dental chair.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>People who early learn the right way to choose a
dentist have their reward. Professional superiority
is not everything; it is only part. All dentists talk
while they work. They have inherited this from
their professional ancestors, the barbers. The dentist
who talks well--other things being equal--is the
one to choose. He tells anecdotes all the while and
keeps his man so interested and entertained that he
hardly notices the flight of time. For he not only
tells anecdotes that are good in themselves, but he
adds nice shadings to them with his instruments as
he goes along, and now and then brings out effects
which could not be produced with any other kind of
tools at all. All the time that such a dentist as this
is plowing down into a cavity with that spinning
gouge which he works with a treadle, it is observable
that he has found out where he has uncovered a
nerve down in there, and that he only visits it at
intervals, according to the needs of his anecdote,
touching it lightly, very lightly and swiftly, now and
then, to brighten up some happy conceit in his tale
and call a delicate electric attention to it; and all
the while he is working gradually and steadily up
toward his climax with veiled and consummate art--then
at last the spindle stops whirling and thundering
in the cavity, and you know that the grand
surprise is imminent, now--is hanging in the very
air. You can hear your heart beat as the dentist
bends over you with his grip on the spindle and his
voice diminished to a murmur. The suspense grows
bigger--bigger--bigger--your breath stops--then
your heart. Then with lightning suddenness the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>“nub” is sprung and the spindle drives into the raw
nerve! The most brilliant surprises of the stage are
pale and artificial compared with this.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is believed by people generally--or at least by
many--that the exquisitely sharp sensation which
results from plunging the steel point into the raw
nerve is pain, but I think that this is doubtful. It
is so vivid and sudden that one has no time to
examine properly into its character. It is probably
impossible, with our human limitations, to determine
with certainty whether a sensation of so high and
perfect an order as that is pain or whether it is
pleasure. Its location brings it under the disadvantage
of a common prejudice; and so men mistake
it for pain when they might perceive that it is the
opposite of that if it were anywhere but in a tooth.
I may be in error, but I have experimented with
it a great deal and I am satisfied in my own mind that
it is not pain. It is true that it always feels like
pain, but that proves nothing--ice against a naked
back always passes for fire. I have every confidence
that I can eventually prove to everyone’s satisfaction
that a nerve-stab produces pleasure; and
not only that, but the most exquisite pleasure, the
most perfect felicity which we are capable of feeling.
I would not ask more than to be remembered hereafter
as the man who conferred this priceless benefaction
upon his race.</p>

<p class='c001'>11.30.--Approaching the Falls of the Rhône.
Canal to the left, walled with compact and beautiful
masonry. It is a cut-off. We could pass through it
and avoid the Falls--are advised by the Admiral to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>do it, but all decline, preferring to have a dangerous
adventure to talk about.</p>

<p class='c001'>However....</p>

<p class='c001'>The truth is, the current began to grow ominously
swift--and presently pretty lumpy and perturbed;
soon we seemed to be simply flying past the shores.
Then all of a sudden three hundred yards of boiling
and tossing river burst upon our sight through the
veiling tempest of rain! I did not see how our flimsy
ark could live through such a place. If we were
wrecked, swimming could not save us; the packed
multitude of tall humps of water meant a bristling
chaos of big rocks underneath, and the first rock we
hit would break our bones. If I had been fortified
with ignorance I might have wanted to stay in the
boat and see the fun; but I have had much professional
familiarity with water, and I doubted if there
was going to be any fun there. So I said I would
get out and walk, and I did. I need not tell anybody
at home; I could leave out the Falls of the
Rhône; they are not on the map, anyhow. If an
adventure worth recording resulted, the Admiral and
the courier would have it, and that would answer. I
could see it from the bank--nothing could be better;
it seemed even providential.</p>

<p class='c001'>I ran along the bank in the driving rain, and enjoyed
the sight to the full. I never saw a finer show
than the passage of that boat was, through the fierce
turmoil of water. Alternately she rose high and
plunged deep, throwing up sheets of foaming spray
and shaking them off like a mane. Several times she
seemed to fairly bury herself, and I thought she
<span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>was gone for good, but always she sprang high aloft the
next moment, a gallant and stirring spectacle to see.
The Admiral’s steering was great. I had not seen
the equal of it before.</p>

<p class='c001'>The boat waited for me down at the Villebois
bridge, and I presently caught up and went aboard.
There was a stretch of a hundred yards of offensively
rough water below the bridge, but it had no dangerous
features about it. Still, I was obliged to claim
that it had, and that these perils were much greater
than the others.</p>

<p class='c001'>Noon.--A mile of perpendicular precipices--very
handsome. On the left, at the termination of this
stately wall, a darling little old tree-grown ruin
abreast a wooded islet with a large white mansion
on it. Near that ruin nature has gotten up a clever
counterfeit of one, tree-grown and all that, and,
as its most telling feature, has furnished it a battered
monolith that stands up out of the underbrush by
itself and looks as if men had shaped it and put it
there and time had gnawed it and worn it.</p>

<p class='c001'>This is the prettiest piece of river we have found.
All its aspects are dainty and gracious and alluring.</p>

<p class='c001'>1 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--Château de la Salette. This is the port
of the Grotte de la Balme, “one of the seven wonders
of Dauphiny.” It is across a plain in the face of a
bluff a mile from the river. A grotto is out of the
common order, and I should have liked to see this
one, but the rains have made the mud very deep
and it did not seem well to venture so long a trip
through it.</p>

<p class='c001'>2.15 <span class='fss'>P.M.</span>--St.-Etienne. On a distant ridge inland
<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>a tall openwork structure commandingly situated,
with a statue of the Virgin standing on it.</p>

<p class='c001'>Immense empty freight barges being towed upstream
by teams of two and four big horses--not on
the bank, but under it; not on the land, but always
in the water--sometimes breast deep--and around
the big flat bars.</p>

<p class='c001'>We reached a not very promising-looking village
about four o’clock, and concluded to land; munching
fruit and filling the hood with pipe smoke had grown
monotonous. We could not have the hood furled,
because the floods of rain fell unceasingly. The
tavern was on the river bank, as is the custom. It
was dull there, and melancholy--nothing to do but
look out of the window into the drenching rain and
shiver; one could do that, for it was bleak and cold
and windy, and there was no fire. Winter overcoats
were not sufficient; they had to be supplemented
with rugs. The raindrops were so large and struck
the river with such force that they knocked up the
water like pebble splashes.</p>

<p class='c001'>With the exception of a very occasional wooden-shod
peasant, nobody was abroad in this bitter
weather--I mean of our sex. But all weathers are
alike to the women in these continental countries.
To them and the other animals life is serious;
nothing interrupts their slavery. Three of them
were washing clothes in the river under the window
when we arrived, and they continued at it as long
as there was light to work by. One was apparently
thirty; another--the mother?--above fifty; the
third--grandmother?--so old and worn and gray
<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>she could have passed for eighty. They had no
waterproofs or rubbers, of course; over their heads
and shoulders they wore gunny sacks--simply conductors
for rivers of water; some of the volume
reached ground, the rest soaked in on the way.</p>

<p class='c001'>At last a vigorous fellow of thirty-five arrived,
dry and comfortable, smoking his pipe under his big
umbrella in an open donkey cart--husband, son, and
grandson of those women? He stood up in the cart,
sheltering himself, and began to superintend, issuing
his orders in a masterly tone of command, and showing
temper when they were not obeyed swiftly
enough. Without complaint or murmur the drowned
women patiently carried out the orders, lifting the
immense baskets of soaked clothing into the cart and
stowing them to the man’s satisfaction. The cart
being full now, he descended, with his umbrella,
entered the tavern, and the women went drooping
homeward in the wake of the cart, and soon were
blended with the deluge and lost to sight. We
would tar and feather that fellow in America, and
ride him on a rail.</p>

<p class='c001'>When we came down into the public room he had
his bottle of wine and plate of food on a bare table
black with grease, and was chomping like a horse.
He had the little religious paper which is in everybody’s
hands on the Rhône borders, and was enlightening
himself with the histories of French saints
who used to flee to the desert in the Middle Ages to
escape the contamination of women.</p>

<p class='c001'>Wednesday.--After breakfast, got under way.
Still storming as hard as ever. The whole land looks
<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>defeated and discouraged. And very lonely; here
and there a woman in the fields. They merely accent
the loneliness.</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>--The record ends here. Luxurious enjoyment of the
excursion rendered the traveler indifferent to his notes. The drift
continued to Arles, whence Mark Twain returned to Geneva and
Ouchy by rail. Ten years later he set down another picture of this
happy journey--“The Lost Napoleon”--which follows.--A. B. P.</p>

</div>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f3'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r3'>3</a>. Of Hartford, Connecticut.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f4'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r4'>4</a>. <i>Note, 1904.</i> Hopkinson Smith, now a distinguished man in
literature, art, and architecture. S. L. C.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE LOST NAPOLEON</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>The lost Napoleon is a part of a mountain range.
Several miles of it--say six. When you stand
at the right viewpoint and look across the plain,
there, miles away, stretched out on his back under
the sky, you see the great Napoleon, sleeping, with
his arm folded upon his breast. You recognize him
at once and you catch your breath and a thrill goes
through you from head to foot--a most natural thing
to happen, for you have never been so superbly
astonished in your life before, and you realize, if
you live a century, it is not likely that you will ever
encounter the like of that tremendous surprise again.
You see, it is unique. You have seen mountain
ridges before that looked like men lying down, but
there was always some one to pilot you to the right
viewpoint, and prepare you for the show, and then
tell you which is the head and which the feet and
which the stomach, and at last you get the idea and
say, “Yes, now I see it, now I make it out--it is a
man, and wonderful, too.” But all this has damaged
the surprise and there is not much thrill; moreover,
the man is only a third-rate celebrity or no celebrity
at all--he is no Napoleon the Great. But I discovered
this stupendous Napoleon myself and was
caught wholly by surprise, hence the splendid
emotion, the uplifting astonishment.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>We have all seen mountains that looked like
whales, elephants, recumbent lions--correctly figured,
too, and a pleasure to look upon--but we did
not discover them, somebody pointed them out to
us, and in the same circumstances we have seen and
enjoyed stately crags and summits known to the
people thereabouts as “The Old Man’s Head,”
“The Elephant’s Head,” “Anthony’s Nose,” “The
Lady’s Head,” etc., and we have seen others that
were named “Shakespeare’s Head,” and “Satan’s
Head,” but still the fine element of surprise was in
almost all cases wanting.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Lost Napoleon is easily the most colossal and
impressive statue in the world. It is several miles
long; in form and proportions it is perfect. It
represents Napoleon himself and not another; and
there is something about the dignity and repose of
the great figure that stirs the imagination and half
persuades it that this is not an unsentient artifice of
nature, but the master of the world sentient and
dreaming--dreaming of battle, conquest, empire. I
call it the Lost Napoleon because I cannot remember
just where I was when I saw it. My hope, in writing
this, is that I may move some wandering tourist or
artist to go over my track and seek for it--seek for
it, find it, locate it exactly, describe it, paint it, and
so preserve it against loss again.</p>

<p class='c001'>My track was down the Rhône; I made the excursion
ten or eleven years ago in the pleasantest
season of the year. I took a courier with me and
went from Geneva a couple of hours by rail to the blue
little Lake Bourget, and spent the night in a mediæval
<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>castle on an island in that little lake. In the early
morning our boat came for us. It was a roomy open
boat fifteen or twenty feet long, with a single pair of
long oars, and with it came its former owner, a
sturdy big boatman. The boat was mine now; I
think I paid five dollars for it. I was to pay the boatman
a trifling daily wage and his keep, and he was to
take us all the way down the Rhône to Marseilles.
It was warm weather and very sunny, but we built a
canvas arch, like a wagon cover, over the aftermost
third of the boat, with a curtain at its rear which
could be rolled up to let the breeze blow through,
and I occupied that tent and was always comfortable.
The sailor sat amidships and manned the oars,
and the courier had the front third of the boat to
himself. We crossed the lake and went winding down
a narrow canal bordered by peasant houses and vineyards,
and after about a league of this navigation we
came in sight of the Rhône, a troubled gray stream
which went tearing past the mouth of the peaceful
canal at a racing gait. We emerged into it and laid
in the oars. We could go fast enough in that current
without artificial aid. During the first days we
slipped along down the curving bends at a speed of
about five miles an hour, but it slackened later.</p>

<p class='c001'>Our days were all about alike. About four in the
afternoon we tied up at a village and I dined on the
greensward in front of the inn by the water’s edge,
on the choicest chickens, vegetables, fruit, butter,
and bread, prepared in French perfection and
served upon the whitest linen; and as a rule I had
the friendly house cat and dog for guests and company
<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>and willing and able helpers. I slept in the
inn; often in clean and satisfactory quarters, sometimes
in the same room with the cows and the fleas.
I breakfasted on the lawn in the morning with cat
and dog again; then laid in a stock of grapes and
other fruits gathered fresh from the garden and some
bottles of red wine made on the premises, and at
eight or nine we went floating down the river again.
At noon we went ashore at a village, bought a
freshly caught fish or two, had them broiled, got
some bread and vegetables, and set sail again at once.
We always lunched on board as we floated along. I
spent my days reading books, making notes, smoking,
and in other lazy and enchanting ways, and
had the delightfulest ten-day voyage I have ever
experienced.</p>

<p class='c001'>It took us ten days to float to Arles. There the
current gave out and I closed the excursion and returned
to Geneva by rail. It was twenty-eight miles
to Marseilles, and we should have been obliged to
row. That would not have been pleasure; it would
have meant work for the sailor, and I do not like
work even when another person does it.</p>

<p class='c001'>I think it was about the eighth day that I discovered
Napoleon. My notes cover four or five days;
there they stop; the charm of the trip had taken possession
of me, and I had no energy left. It was
getting toward four in the afternoon--time to tie
up for the day. Down ahead on the right bank I
saw a compact jumble of yellowy-browny cubes
stacked together, some on top of the others, and no
visible cracks in the mass, and knew it for a village--a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>village common to that region down there; a
village jammed together without streets or alleys,
substantially--where your progress is mainly <em>through</em>
the houses, not <em>by</em> them, and where privacy is a
thing practically unknown; a village which probably
hadn’t had a house added to the jumble for five
hundred years. We were anywhere from half a mile
to a mile above the village when I gave the order
to proceed to that place and tie up. Just then I
glanced to my left toward the distant mountain
range, and got that soul-stirring shock which I have
said so much about. I pointed out the grand figure
to the courier, and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Name it. Who is it?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Napoleon!”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Yes, it is Napoleon. Show it to the sailor and
ask him to name it.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The sailor said, “Napoleon.” We watched the
figure all the time then until we reached the village.
We walked up the river bank in the morning to see
how far one might have to go before the shape would
materially change, but I do not now remember the
result. We watched it afterward as we floated away
from the village, but I cannot remember at what point
the shape began to be marred. However, the
mountains being some miles away, I think that the
figure would be recognizable as Napoleon along a
stretch of as much as a mile above and a mile below
the village, though I think that the likeness would
be strongest at the point where I first saw it--that
is, half a mile or more above the village.</p>

<p class='c001'>We talked the grand apparition over at great length
<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>and with a strong interest. I said I believed that
if its presence were known to the world such shoals of
tourists would come flocking there to see it that all
the spare ground would soon be covered with hotels;
and I think so yet. I think it would soon be the most
celebrated natural curiosity on the planet, that it
would be more visited than Niagara or the Alps, and
that all the other famous natural curiosities of the
globe would fall to a rank away below it. I think so
still.</p>

<p class='c001'>There is a line of lumbering and thundering great
freight steamers on the Rhône, and I think that if
some man will board one of them at Arles and make
a trip of some hours upstream--say from three to
six--and keep an eye out to the right and watch that
mountain range he will be certain to find the Lost
Napoleon and have no difficulty in rediscovering the
mighty statue when he comes to the right point.
It will cost nothing to make the experiment, and I
hope it will be done.</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>--Mark Twain’s biographer rediscovered it in 1913. It is
some miles below Valence, opposite the village of Beauchastel.</p>

</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>SOME NATIONAL STUPIDITIES <br /> <span class='small'>(1891-1892)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>The slowness of one section of the world about
adopting the valuable ideas of another section
of it is a curious thing and unaccountable. This
form of stupidity is confined to no community, to no
nation; it is universal. The fact is the human race
is not only slow about borrowing valuable ideas--it
sometimes persists in not borrowing them at all.</p>

<p class='c001'>Take the German stove, for instance--the huge
white porcelain monument that towers toward the
ceiling in the corner of the room, solemn, unsympathetic,
and suggestive of death and the grave--where
can you find it outside of the German countries?
I am sure I have never seen it where German
was not the language of the region. Yet it is by long
odds the best stove and the most convenient and
economical that has yet been invented.<a id='r5' /><a href='#f5' class='c022'><sup>[5]</sup></a></p>

<p class='c001'>To the uninstructed stranger it promises nothing;
but he will soon find that it is a masterly performer,
for all that. It has a little bit of a door which you
couldn’t get your head into--a door which seems
foolishly out of proportion to the rest of the edifice;
yet the door is right, for it is not necessary that bulky
fuel shall enter it. Small-sized fuel is used, and marvelously
<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>little of that. The door opens into a tiny
cavern which would not hold more fuel than a baby
could fetch in its arms. The process of firing is quick
and simple. At half past seven on a cold morning
the servant brings a small basketful of slender pine
sticks--say a modified armful--and puts half of
these in, lights them with a match, and closes the
door. They burn out in ten or twelve minutes. He
then puts in the rest and <em>locks</em> the door, and carries
off the key. The work is done. He will not come
again until next morning. All day long and until
past midnight all parts of the room will be delightfully
warm and comfortable, and there will be no
headaches and no sense of closeness or oppression.
In an American room, whether heated by steam,
hot water, or open fires, the neighborhood of the
register or the fireplace is warmest--the heat is not
equally diffused through the room; but in a German
room one is as comfortable in one part of it as in
another. Nothing is gained or lost by being near the
stove. Its surface is not hot; you can put your
hand on it anywhere and not get burnt. Consider
these things. One firing is enough for the day; the
cost is next to nothing; the heat produced is the
same all day, instead of too hot and too cold by
turns; one may absorb himself in his business in
peace; he does not need to feel any anxieties or
solicitudes about his fire; his whole day is a realized
dream of bodily comfort.</p>

<p class='c001'>The German stove is not restricted to wood; peat
is used in it, and coal bricks also. These coal bricks
are made of waste coal dust pressed in a mold. In
<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>effect they are dirt and in fact are dirt cheap. The
brick is about as big as your two fists; the stove will
burn up twenty of them in half an hour, then it will
need no more fuel for that day.</p>

<p class='c001'>This noble stove is at its very best when its front
has a big square opening in it for a <em>visible</em> wood fire.
The real heating is done in the hidden regions of the
great structure, of course--the open fire is merely
to rejoice your eye and gladden your heart.</p>

<p class='c001'>America could adopt this stove, but does America
do it? No, she sticks placidly to her own fearful and
wonderful inventions in the stove line. She has fifty
kinds, and not a rational one in the lot. The American
wood stove, of whatsoever breed, is a terror.
There can be no tranquillity of mind where it is. It
requires more attention than a baby. It has to be
fed every little while, it has to be watched all the
time; and for all reward you are roasted half your
time and frozen the other half. It warms no part of
the room but its own part; it breeds headaches and
suffocation, and makes one’s skin feel dry and
feverish; and when your wood bill comes in you
think you have been supporting a volcano.</p>

<p class='c001'>We have in America many and many a breed of
coal stoves, also--fiendish things, everyone of them.
The base-burner sort are handy and require but
little attention; but none of them, of whatsoever
kind, distributes its heat uniformly through the
room, or keeps it at an unvarying temperature, or
fails to take the life out of the atmosphere and leave
it stuffy and smothery and stupefying.</p>

<p class='c001'>It seems to me that the ideal of comfort would be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>a German stove to heat one’s room, and an open
wood fire to make it cheerful; then have furnace-heat
in the halls. We could easily find some way
to make the German stove beautiful, and that is all
it needs at present. Still, even as it is to-day, it is
lovely, it is a darling, compared with any “radiator”
that has yet been intruded upon the world. That
odious gilded skeleton! It makes all places ugly that
it inhabits--just by contagion.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is certainly strange that useful customs and
devices do not spread from country to country with
more facility and promptness than they do. You
step across the German border almost anywhere, and
suddenly the German stove has disappeared. In
Italy you find a foolish and ineffectual modification
of it, in Paris you find an unprepossessing “adaptation”
of our base-burner on a reduced pattern.</p>

<p class='c001'>Fifteen years ago Paris had a cheap and cunning
little fire kindler consisting of a pine shaving, curled
as it came from the carpenter’s plane, and gummed
over with an inflammable substance which would
burn several minutes and set fire to the most obdurate
wood. It was cheap and handy, but no
stranger carried the idea home with him. Paris has
another swift and victorious kindler, now, in the
form of a small black cake made of I don’t know
what; but you shove it under the wood and touch a
match to it and your fire is made. No one will think
to carry that device to America, or elsewhere. In
America we prefer to kindle the fire with the kerosene
can and chance the inquest. I have been in a
multitude of places where pine cones were abundant,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>but only in the French Riviera and in one place in
Italy have I seen them in the wood box to kindle the
fires with.</p>

<p class='c001'>For perfect adaptation to the service required,
look at the American gum shoe and the American
arctic. Their virtues ought to have carried them to
all wet and snowy lands; but they haven’t done anything
of the kind. There are few places on the continent
of Europe where one can buy them.</p>

<p class='c001'>And observe how slowly our typewriting machine
makes its way. In the great city of Florence I was
able to find only one place where I could get typewriting
done; and then it was not done by a native,
but by an American girl. In the great city of Munich
I found one typewriting establishment, but the
operator was sick and that suspended the business.
I was told that there was no opposition house. In
the prodigious city of Berlin I was not able to find
a typewriter at all. There was not even one in our
Embassy or its branches. Our representative there
sent to London for the best one to be had in that
capital, and got an incapable, who would have been
tarred and feathered in Mud Springs, Arizona. Four
years ago a typewritten page was a seldom sight in
Europe, and when you saw it it made you heartsick,
it was so inartistic, and so blurred and shabby
and slovenly. It was because the Europeans made
the machines themselves, and the making of nice
machinery is not one of their gifts. England imports
ours, now. This is wise; she will have her
reward.</p>

<p class='c001'>In all these years the American fountain pen has
<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>hardly got a start in Europe. There is no market
for it. It is too handy, too inspiring, too capable,
too much of a time saver. The dismal steel pen and
the compass-jawed quill are preferred. And semi-liquid
mud is preferred to ink, apparently, everywhere
in Europe. This in face of the fact that there
is ink to be had in America--and at club rates, too.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then there is the elevator, lift, <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>ascenseur</i></span>. America
has had the benefit of this invaluable contrivance for
a generation and a half, and it is now used in all our
cities and villages, in all hotels, in all lofty business
buildings and factories, and in many private dwellings.
But we can’t spread it, we can’t beguile
Europe with it. In Europe an elevator is even to
this day a rarity and a curiosity. Especially a curiosity.
As a rule it seats but three or four persons--often
only two--and it travels so slowly and cautiously
and timorously and piously and solemnly
that it makes a person feel creepy and crawly and
scary and dismal and repentant. Anybody with
sound legs can give the continental elevator two
flights the start and beat it to the sixth floor. Every
time these nations merely import an American idea,
instead of importing the concreted thing itself, the
result is a failure. They tried to make the sewing
machine, and couldn’t; they are trying to make
fountain pens and typewriters and can’t; they are
making these dreary elevators, now--and patenting
them! Satire can no further go.</p>

<p class='c001'>I think that as a rule we develop a borrowed
European idea forward, and that Europe develops
a borrowed American idea backward. We borrowed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>gas lighting and the railroad from England, and the
arc light from France, and these things have improved
under our culture. We have lent Europe our
tramway, telegraph, sewing machine, phonograph,
telephone, and kodak, and while we may not claim
that in these particular instances she has developed
them backward, we are justified in claiming that
she has added no notable improvements to them.
We have added the improvements ourselves and
she has accepted them. Why she has not accepted
and universally adopted the improved elevator is a
surprising and puzzling thing. Its rightful place is
among the great ideas of our great age. It is an
epoch maker. It is a concentrator of population,
and economizer of room. It is going to build our
cities skyward instead of out toward the horizons.<a id='r6' /><a href='#f6' class='c022'><sup>[6]</sup></a>
It is going to enable five millions of people to live
comfortably on the same ground space that one
million uncomfortably lives on now. It is going to
make cheap quarters for Tom, Dick, and Harry near
their work, in place of three miles from it, as is the
rule to-day. It is going to save them the necessity of
adding a six-flight climb to the already sufficient
fatigue of their day’s labor.</p>

<p class='c001'>We imitate some of the good things which we find
in Europe, and we ought to imitate more of them.
At the same time Europe ought to imitate us somewhat
more than she does. The crusty, ill-mannered
and in every way detestable Parisian cabman ought
to imitate our courteous and friendly Boston cabman--and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>stop there. He can’t learn anything from
the guild in New York. And it would morally help
the Parisian shopkeeper if he would imitate the fair
dealing of his American cousin. With us it is not
necessary to ask the price of small articles before we
buy them, but in Paris the person who fails to take
that precaution will get scorched. In business we
are prompt, fair, and trustworthy in all our small
trade matters. It is the rule. In the friendliest spirit
I would recommend France to imitate these humble
virtues. Particularly in the kodak business. Pray
get no kodak pictures developed in France--and
especially in Nice. They will send you your bill to
Rome or Jericho, or whithersoever you have gone,
but that is all you will get. You will never see your
negatives again, or the developed pictures, either.
And by and by the head house in Paris will demand
payment once more, and constructively threaten
you with “proceedings.” If you inquire if they
mailed your package across the frontier without
registering it, they are coldly silent. If you inquire
how they expected to trace and recover a lost package
without a post-office receipt, they are dumb
again. A little intelligence inserted into the kodak
business in those regions would be helpful, if it could
be done without shock.</p>

<p class='c001'>But the worst of all is, that Europe cannot be
persuaded to imitate our railway methods. Two or
three years ago I liked the European methods, but
experience has dislodged that superstition. All over
the Continent the system--to call it by an extravagant
term--is sufficiently poor and slow and clumsy,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>or unintelligent; but in these regards Italy and France
are entitled to the chromo. In Italy it takes more
than half an hour to buy a through ticket to Paris
at Cook &amp; Sons’ offices, there is such a formidable
amount of red tape and recording connected with the
vast transaction. Every little detail of the matter
must be written down in a set of books--your
name, condition, nationality, religion, date, hour,
number of the train, and all that; and at last you
get your ticket and think you are done, but you are
not; it must be carried to the station and stamped;
and even that is not the end, for if you stop over at
any point it must be stamped again or it is forfeited.
And yet you save time and trouble by going to Cook
instead of to the station. Buying your ticket does
not finish your job. Your trunks must be weighed,
and paid for at about human-being rates. This takes
another quarter of an hour of your time--perhaps
half an hour if you are at the tail of the procession.
You get paper checks, which are twice as easy to
lose as brass ones. You cannot secure a seat beforehand,
but must take your chances with the
general rush to the train. If you have your family
with you, you may have to distribute them among
several cars. There is one annoying feature which is
common all over the Continent, and that is, that if
you want to make a short journey you cannot buy
your ticket whenever you find the ticket office open,
but must wait until it is doing business for your
particular train; and that only begins, as a rule, a
quarter of an hour before the train’s time of starting.
The cars are most ingeniously inconvenient, cramped,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>and uncomfortable, and in Italy they are phenomenally
dirty. The European “system” was devised
either by a maniac or by a person whose idea was to
hamper, bother, and exasperate the traveler in all conceivable
ways and sedulously and painstakingly discourage
custom. In Italy, as far as my experience
goes, it is the custom to use the sleeping cars on the
day trains and take them off when the sun goes down.
One thing is sure, anyway: if that is not the case, it
will be, presently, when they think of it. They can
be depended upon to snap up as darling an idea as
that with joy.</p>

<p class='c001'>No, we are bad enough about not importing valuable
European ideas, but Europe is still slower about
introducing ours. Europe has always--from away
back--been neglectful in this regard. Take our
admirable postal and express system, for instance.
We had it perfectly developed and running smoothly
and beautifully more than three hundred years ago;
and Europe came over and admired it and eloquently
praised it--but didn’t adopt it. We Americans....
But let Prescott tell about it. I quote from the
<cite>Conquest of Peru</cite>, chapter 2, vol. 1:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>As the distance each courier had to perform was small, they
ran over the ground with great swiftness, and messages were
carried through the whole extent of the long routes at the rate
of a hundred and fifty miles a day. Their office was not limited
to carrying dispatches. They brought various articles. Fish
from the distant ocean, fruits, game, and different commodities
from the hot regions of the coast were taken to the capital in
good condition. It is remarkable that this important institution
should have been found among two barbarian nations of
the New World long before it was introduced among the civilized
nations of Europe. By these wise contrivances of the Incas,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>the most distant parts of the long-extended empire of Peru
were brought into intimate relations with each other. And
while the capitals of Christendom, but a few hundred miles
apart, remained as far asunder as if seas had rolled between
them, the great capitals Cuzco and Quito were placed in immediate
correspondence. Intelligence from the numerous provinces
was transmitted on the wings of the wind to the Peruvian
metropolis, the great focus to which all the lines of communication
converged.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>There--that is what we had, three hundred and
twenty-five years before Europe had anything that
could be called a businesslike and effective postal
and express service. We are a great people. We
have always been a great people, from the start:
always alive, alert, up early in the morning, and ready
to teach. But Europe has been a slow and discouraging
pupil from the start; always, from the very
start. It seems to me that something ought to be
done about this.</p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f5'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r5'>5</a>. Compare with his remarks on the same subject, in “Marienbad--A
Health Factory,” written about a year earlier.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f6'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r6'>6</a>. This was good prophecy. There were no skyscrapers in New
York City when it was written.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE CHOLERA EPIDEMIC IN HAMBURG <br /> <span class='small'>(1892)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_0_0_4 c014'>I believe I have never been so badly situated
before as I have been during these last four weeks.
To begin with, the time-hallowed and business-worn
thunderbolt out of the clear sky fell about the
18th of August--people in Hamburg dying like flies
of something resembling cholera! A normal death
rate of forty a day suddenly transformed into a
terrific daily slaughter without notice to anybody
to prepare for such a surprise! Certainly that was
recognizable as that kind of a thunderbolt.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was at this point that the oddity of the situation
above referred to began. For you will grant that it
is odd to live four weeks a twelve-hour journey from
a devastating plague nest and remain baffled and
defeated all that time in all your efforts to get at the
state of the case there. Naturally one flies to the
newspapers when a pestilence breaks out in his
neighborhood. He feels sure of one thing, at any
rate: that the paper will cast all other interests into
the background and devote itself to the one supreme
interest of the day; that it will throw wide its
columns and cram them with information, valuable
and otherwise, concerning that great event; and that
it will even leave out the idle jaunts of little dukes and
kinglets to make room for the latest plague item. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>sought the newspapers, and was disappointed. I
know now that nothing that can happen in this
world can stir the German daily journal out of its
eternal lethargy. When the Last Day comes it will
note the destruction of the world in a three-line
paragraph and turn over and go to sleep again.</p>

<p class='c001'>This sort of journalism furnishes plenty of wonders.
I have seen ostensible telegrams from Hamburg four
days old, gravely put forth as news, and no apology
offered. I have tracked a news item from one paper
to another day after day until it died of old age and
fatigue--and yet everybody treated it with respect,
nobody laughed. Is it believable that these antiquities
are forwarded by telegraph? It would be
more rational to send them by slow freight, because
less expensive and more speedy.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then, the meagerness of the news meal is another
marvel. That department of the paper is not headed
“Poverty Column,” nobody knows why. We know
that multitudes of people are being swept away daily
in Hamburg, yet the daily telegrams from there could
be copied on a half page of note paper, as a rule. If
any newspaper has sent a special reporter thither
he has not arrived yet.</p>

<p class='c001'>The final miracle of all is the character of this daily
dribble of so-called news. The wisest man in the
world can get no information out of it. It is an Irish
stew made up of unrelated odds and ends, a mere
chaotic confusion and worthless. What can one
make out of statistics like these:</p>

<p class='c001'>Up to noon, 655 cases, 333 deaths. Of these 189
were previously reported.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>The report that 650 bodies are lying unburied is
not true. There are only 340, and the most of these
will be buried to-night.</p>

<p class='c001'>There are 2,062 cases in the hospitals, 215 deaths.</p>

<p class='c001'>The figures are never given in such a way as to
afford one an opportunity to compare the death list
of one day with that of another; consequently there
is no way of finding out whether the pest abates or
increases. Sometimes a report uses the expression
“to-day” and does not say when the day began or
ended; sometimes the deaths for several days are
bunched together in a divisionless lump; sometimes
the figures make you think the deaths are five or six
hundred a day, while other figures in the same paragraph
seem to indicate that the rate is below two
hundred.</p>

<p class='c001'>A day or two ago the word cholera was not discoverable
at all in that day’s issue of one of our
principal dailies; in to-day’s issue of the same paper
there is no cholera report from Hamburg. Yet a
private letter from there says the raging pestilence
is actually increasing.</p>

<p class='c001'>One might imagine that the papers are forbidden
to publish cholera news. I had that impression myself.
It seemed the only explanation of the absence
of special Hamburg correspondence. But it appears
now, that the Hamburg papers are crammed with
matter pertaining to the cholera, therefore that idea
was an error. How does one find this out? In this
amazing way: that a daily newspaper located ten or
twelve hours from Hamburg describes with owl-eyed
wonder the stirring contents of a Hamburg daily
<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>journal <em>six days old</em>, and yet gets from it the only
informing matter, the only matter worth reading,
which it has yet published from that smitten city
concerning the pestilence.</p>

<p class='c001'>You see, it did not even occur to that petrified
editor to bail his columns dry of their customary
chloroform and copy that Hamburg journal entire.
He is so used to shoveling gravel that he doesn’t
know a diamond when he sees it. I would trust that
man with untold bushels of precious news, and nobody
to watch him. Among other things which he
notes in the Hamburg paper is the fact that its
supplements contained one hundred of the customary
elaborate and formal German death notices. That
means--what nobody has had reason to suppose
before--that the slaughter is not confined to the poor
and friendless. I think so, because that sort of death
notice occupies a formidable amount of space in an
advertising page, and must cost a good deal of money.</p>

<p class='c001'>I wander from my proper subject to observe that
one hundred of these notices in a single journal must
make that journal a sorrow to the eye and a shock to
the taste, even among the Germans themselves, who
are bred to endure and perhaps enjoy a style of “display
ads” which far surpasses even the vilest American
attempts, for insane and outrageous ugliness.
Sometimes a death notice is as large as a foolscap
page, has big black display lines, and is bordered
all around with a coarse mourning border as thick
as your finger. The notices are of all sizes from
foolscap down to a humble two-inch square, and
they suggest lamentation of all degrees, from the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>hundred-dollar hurricane of grief to the two-shilling
sigh of a composed and modest regret. A newspaper
page blocked out with mourning compartments of
fifty different sizes flung together without regard
to order or system or size must be a spectacle to see.</p>

<div class='fatborder'>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>Todes-Anzeige.</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<hr class='c006' />

<p class='c001'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">Theilnehmenden Freunden und Bekannten hierdurch
die schmerzliche Nachricht, daß mein lieber
Freund und langjähriger, treuer Mitarbeiter</span></p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='xlarge'>Rudolf Beck</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c021'><span lang="de" xml:lang="de">gestern Abend an einem Herzschlag plötzlich verschieden
ist.</span></p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span lang="de" xml:lang="de"><span class='large'><b>Langen</b></span>, den 5. September 1892.</span></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='xlarge'>Otto Steingoetter</span></div>
    <div class='c000'>Firma <b>Beck &amp; Steingoetter</b>.</div>
    <div class='c000'>Die Beerdigung findet Dienstag, den 6. Sept.,</div>
    <div>Nachmittags 3½ Uhr, statt.</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c015'>25958</div>

</div>

<p class='c001'>The notice copied above is modest and straightforward.
The advertiser informs sympathizing
friends and acquaintances that his dear friend and
old and faithful fellow laborer has been suddenly
smitten with death; then signs his name and adds
“of the firm of Beck &amp; Steingoetter,” which is
perhaps another way of saying that the business
will be continued as usual at the old stand. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>average notice is often refreshed with a whiff of
business at the end.</p>

<p class='c001'>The 100 formal notices in the Hamburg paper did
not mean merely 100 deaths; each told of one death,
but many of them told of more--in some cases they
told of four and five. In the same issue there were
132 one-line death notices. If the dates of these
deaths were all stated, the 232 notices together could
be made the basis of a better guess at the current
mortality in Hamburg than the “official” reports
furnished, perhaps. You would know that a certain
number died on a certain day who left behind them
people able to publish the fact and pay for it. Then
you could correctly assume that the vast bulk of
that day’s harvest were people who were penniless
and left penniless friends behind. You could add your
facts to your assumption and get <em>some</em> sort of idea of
the death rate, and this would be strikingly better than
the official reports, since they give you no idea at all.</p>

<p class='c001'>To-day a physician was speaking of a private
letter received here yesterday from a physician in
Hamburg which stated that every day numbers of
poor people are snatched from their homes to the
pest houses, and that that is the last that is heard
of a good many of them. No intelligible record is
kept; they die unknown and are buried so. That
no intelligible record is kept seems proven by the
fact that the public cannot get hold of a burial list
for one day that is not made impossible by the record
of the day preceding and the one following it.</p>

<p class='c001'>What I am trying to make the reader understand
is, the strangeness of the situation here--a mighty
<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>tragedy being played upon a stage that is close to
us, and yet we are as ignorant of its details as we
should be if the stage were in China. We sit “in
front,” and the audience is in fact the world; but
the curtain is down and from behind it we hear only
an inarticulate murmur. The Hamburg disaster
must go into history as the disaster without a history.
And yet a well-trained newspaper staff would find a
way to secure an accurate list of the new hospital
cases and the burials daily, and would do it, and
not take it out in complaining of the foolishness and
futility of the official reports. Every day we know exactly
what is going on in the two cholera-stricken ships
in the harbor of New York. That is all the cholera
news we get that is worth printing or believing.</p>

<p class='c001'>All along we have heard rumors that the force of
workers at Hamburg was too small to cope with the
pestilence; that more help was impossible to get;
and we have seen statements which confirmed these
sorrowful facts; statements which furnished the pitiful
spectacle of brave workers dying at their posts
from exhaustion; of corpses lying in the halls of the
hospitals, waiting there because there was no worker
idle; and now comes another confirmatory item; it is
in the physician’s letter above referred to--an item
which shows you how hard pressed the authorities
are by their colossal burden--an item which gives
you a sudden and terrific sense of the situation there;
for in a line it flashes before you this ghastly picture,
a thing seen by the physician: a wagon going along
the street with five sick people in it, and with them
four corpses!</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>QUEEN VICTORIA’S JUBILEE <br /> <span class='small'>(1897)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>So far as I can see, a procession has value in but
two ways--as a show and as a symbol; its minor
function being to delight the eye, its major one to
compel thought, exalt the spirit, stir the heart, and
inflame the imagination. As a mere show, and meaningless--like
a Mardi-Gras march--a magnificent
procession is a sight worth a long journey to see; as
a symbol, the most colorless and unpicturesque procession,
if it have a moving history back of it, is
worth a thousand of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>After the Civil War ten regiments of bronzed New
York veterans marched up Broadway in faded uniforms
and bearing faded battle flags that were mere
shot-riddled rags--and in each battalion as it swung
by, one noted a great gap, an eloquent vacancy where
had marched the comrades who had fallen and would
march no more! Always, as this procession advanced
between the massed multitudes, its approach was
welcomed by each block of people with a burst of
proud and grateful enthusiasm--then the head of it
passed, and suddenly revealed those pathetic gaps,
and silence fell upon that block; for every man in it
had choked up, and could not get command of his
voice and add it to the storm again for many minutes.
That was the most moving and tremendous effect
<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>that I have ever witnessed--those affecting silences
falling between those hurricanes of worshiping
enthusiasm.</p>

<p class='c001'>There was no costumery in that procession, no
color, no tinsel, no brilliancy, yet it was the greatest
spectacle and the most gracious and exalting and
beautiful that has come within my experience. It
was because it had history back of it, and because it
was a symbol, and stood for something, and because
one viewed it with the spiritual vision, not the
physical. There was not much for the physical eye
to see, but it revealed continental areas, limitless
horizons, to the eye of the imagination and the spirit.</p>

<p class='c001'>A procession, to be valuable, must do one thing or
the other--clothe itself in splendors and charm the
eye, or symbolize something sublime and uplifting,
and so appeal to the imagination. As a mere spectacle
to look at, I suppose that the Queen’s procession
will not be as showy as the Tsar’s late pageant;
it will probably fall much short of the one in Tannhäuser
in the matter of rich and adorable costumery;
in the number of renowned personages on view in it,
it will probably fall short of some that have been
seen in England before this. And yet in its major
function, its symbolic function, I think that if all the
people in it wore their everyday clothes and marched
without flags or music, it would still be incomparably
the most memorable and most important procession
that ever moved through the streets of London.</p>

<p class='c001'>For it will stand for English history, English
growth, English achievement, the accumulated
power and renown and dignity of twenty centuries
<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>of strenuous effort. Many things about it will set
one to reflecting upon what a large feature of this
world England is to-day, and this will in turn move
one, even the least imaginative, to cast a glance down
her long perspective and note the steps of her progress
and the insignificance of her first estate. In this
matter London is itself a suggestive object lesson.</p>

<p class='c001'>I suppose that London has always existed. One
cannot easily imagine an England that had no London.
No doubt there was a village here 5,000 years
ago. It was on the river somewhere west of where
the Tower is now; it was built of thatched mud huts
close to a couple of limpid brooks, and on every hand
for miles and miles stretched rolling plains of fresh
green grass, and here and there were groups and
groves of trees. The tribes wore skins--sometimes
merely their own, sometimes those of other animals.
The chief was monarch, and helped out his complexion
with blue paint. His industry was the chase;
his relaxation was war. Some of the Englishmen
who will view the procession to-day are carrying his
ancient blood in their veins.</p>

<p class='c001'>It may be that that village remained about as it
began, away down to the Roman occupation, a couple
of thousand years ago. It was still not much of a
town when Alfred burned the cakes. Even when the
Conqueror first saw it, it did not amount to much.
I think it must have been short of distinguished architecture
or he would not have traveled down into the
country to the village of Westminster to get crowned.
If you skip down 350 years further you will find a
London of some little consequence, but I believe that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>that is as much as you can say for it. Still, I am
interested in that London, for it saw the first two
processions which will live longer than any other in
English history, I think; the date of the one is 1415,
that of the other is 1897.</p>

<p class='c001'>The compactly built part of the London of 1415
was a narrow strip not a mile long, which stretched
east and west through the middle of what is now
called “the City.” The houses were densest in the
region of Cheapside. South of the strip were scattering
residences which stood in turfy lawns which
sloped to the river. North of the strip, fields and
country homes extended to the walls. Let us represent
that London by three checker-board squares
placed in a row; then open out a New York
newspaper like a book, and the space which it covers
will properly represent the London of to-day by comparison.
It is the difference between your hand and
a blanket. It is possible that that ancient London
had 100,000 inhabitants, and that 100,000 outsiders
came to town to see the procession. The present
London contains five or six million inhabitants, and
it has been calculated that the population has jumped
to 10,000,000 to-day.</p>

<p class='c001'>The pageant of 1415 was to celebrate the gigantic
victory of Agincourt, then and still the most colossal
in England’s history.</p>

<p class='c001'>From that day to this there has been nothing that
even approached it but Plassey. It was the third
and greatest in the series of monster victories won by
the English over the French in the Hundred Years’
War--Crecy, Poitiers, Agincourt. At Agincourt,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>according to history, 15,000 English, under Henry
V, defeated and routed an army of 100,000 French.
Sometimes history makes it 8,000 English and 60,000
French; but no matter, in both cases the proportions
are preserved. Eight thousand of the French nobility
were slain and the rest of the order taken prisoners--1,500
in number--among them the Dukes of
Orléans and Bourbon and Marshal Boucicaut; and
the victory left the whole northern half of France an
English possession. This wholesale depletion of the
aristocracy made such a stringent scarcity in its
ranks that when the young peasant girl, Joan of Arc,
came to undo Henry’s mighty work fourteen years
later she could hardly gather together nobles enough
to man her staff.</p>

<p class='c001'>The battle of Agincourt was fought on the 25th
of October, and a few days later the tremendous
news was percolating through England. Presently
it was sweeping the country like a tidal wave, like a
cyclone, like a conflagration. Choose your own figure,
there is no metaphor known to the language that can
exaggerate the tempest of joy and pride and exultation
that burst everywhere along the progress of that
great news.</p>

<p class='c001'>The king came home and brought his soldiers with
him--he and they the idols of the nation, now. He
brought his 1,500 captive knights and nobles, too--we
shall not see any such output of blue blood as
that to-day, bond or free. The king rested three
weeks in his palace, the Tower of London, while the
people made preparations and prepared the welcome
due him. On the 22d of December all was ready.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>There were no cables, no correspondents, no newspapers
then--a regrettable defect, but not irremediable.
A young man who would have been a correspondent
if he had been born 500 years later was
in London at the time, and he remembers the details.
He has communicated them to me through a competent
spirit medium, phrased in a troublesome mixture
of obsolete English and moldy French, and I
have thoroughly modernized his story and put it into
straight English, and will here record it. I will
explain that his Sir John Oldcastle is a person whom
we do not know very well by that name, nor much
care for; but we know him well and adore him, too,
under his other name--Sir John Falstaff. Also, I
will remark that two miles of the Queen’s progress
to-day will be over ground traversed by the procession
of Henry V; all solid bricks and mortar, now,
but open country in Henry’s day, and clothed in that
unapproachable beauty which has been the monopoly
of sylvan England since the creation. Ah, where
now are those long-vanished forms, those unreturning
feet! Let us not inquire too closely. Translated,
this is the narrative of the spirit-correspondent, who
is looking down upon me at this moment from his
high home, and admiring to see how the art and
mystery of spelling has improved since his time!</p>

<p class='c001'>NARRATIVE OF THE SPIRIT CORRESPONDENT</p>

<p class='c001'>I was commanded by my lord the Lord Mayor to
make a report for the archives, and was furnished
with a fleet horse, and with a paper permitting me
<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>to go anywhere at my will, without let or hindrance,
even up and down the processional route, though no
other person not of the procession itself was allowed
this unique privilege during the whole of the 21st and
the 22d.</p>

<p class='c001'>On the morning of the 22d, toward noon, I rode
from the Tower into the city, and through it as far
as St. Paul’s. All the way, on both sides, all the windows,
balconies, and roofs were crowded with people,
and wherever there was a vacancy it had been built
up in high tiers of seats covered with red cloth, and
these seats were also filled with people--in all cases
in bright holiday attire--the woman of fashion
barring the view from all in the rear with those tiresome
extinguisher hats, which of late have grown to
be a cloth-yard high. From every balcony depended
silken stuffs of splendid and various colors, and
figured and pictured rich tapestries. It was brisk,
sharp weather, but a rare one for sun, and when one
looked down this swinging double wall of beautiful
fabrics, glowing and flashing and changing color like
prisms in the flooding light, it was a most fair sight
to see. And there were frequent May poles, garlanded
to their tops, and from the tops swung sheaves
of silken long ribbons of all bright colors, which in
the light breeze writhed and twisted and prettily
mingled themselves together.</p>

<p class='c001'>I rode solitary--in state, as it might be--and was
envied, as I could see, and did not escape comment,
but had a plenty of it; for the conduits were running
gratis wine, and the results were accumulating. I
got many ribald compliments on my riding, on my
<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>clothes, on my office. Everybody was happy, so it
was best to seem so myself, which I did--for those
people’s aim was better than their eggs.</p>

<p class='c001'>A place had been reserved for me on a fine and
fanciful erection in St. Paul’s Churchyard, and there
I waited for the procession. It seemed a long time,
but at last a dull booming sound arose in the distance,
and after a while we saw the banners and the head of
the procession come into view, and heard the muffled
roar of voices that welcomed it. The roar moved
continuously toward us, growing steadily louder and
louder, and stronger and stronger, and with it the
bray and crash of music; and presently it was right
with us, and seemed to roll over us and submerge us,
and stun us, and deafen us--and behold, there was
the hero of Agincourt passing by!</p>

<p class='c001'>All the multitude was standing up, red-faced, frantic,
bellowing, shouting, the tears running down their
faces; and through the storm of waving hats and
handkerchiefs one glimpsed the battle banners and
the drifting host of marching men as through a
dimming flurry of snow.</p>

<p class='c001'>The king, tall, slender, handsome, rode with his
visor up, that all might see his face. He was clad in
his silver armor from head to heel, and had his great
two-handed sword at his side, his battle-ax at his
pommel, his shield upon his arm, and about his helmet
waved and tossed a white mass of fluffy plumes.
On either side of him rode the captive dukes, plumed
like himself, but wearing long crimson satin gowns
over their armor; after these came the French marshal
similarly habited; after him followed the fifteen
<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>hundred French knights, with robes of various colors
over their armor, and with each two rode two English
knights, sometimes robed in various colors, sometimes
in white with a red cross on the shoulder, these
white-clad ones being Knights Templars. Every man
of the three thousand bore his shield upon his left
arm, newly polished and burnished, and on it was
his device.</p>

<p class='c001'>As the king passed the church he bowed his head
and lifted his shield, and by one impulse all the
knights did the same; and so as far down the line as
the eye could reach one saw the lifted shields simultaneously
catch the sun, and it was like a sudden
mile-long shaft of flashing light; and, Lord! it lit up
that dappled sea of color with a glory like “the
golden vortex in the west over the foundered sun”!
(The introduction of this quotation is very interesting,
for it shows that our literature of to-day has a circulation
in heaven--pirated editions, no doubt.--M.T.)</p>

<p class='c001'>The knights were a long time in passing; then
came 5,000 Agincourt men-at-arms, and they were
a long time; and at the very end, last of all, came
that intolerable old tun of sack and godless ruffler,
Sir John Oldcastle (now risen from the dead for the
third time), fat-faced, purple with the spirit of bygone
and lamented drink, smiling his hospitable, wide
smile upon all the world, leering at the women,
wallowing about in his saddle, proclaiming his
valorous deeds as fast as he could lie, taking the
whole glory of Agincourt to his single self, measuring
off the miles of his slain and then multiplying them
by 5, 7, 10, 15, as inspiration after inspiration came
<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>to his help--the most inhuman spectacle in England,
a living, breathing outrage, a slander upon the
human race; and after him came, mumming and
blethering, his infamous lieutenants; and after them
his “paladins,” as he calls them, the mangiest lot of
starvelings and cowards that was ever littered, the
disgrace of the noblest pageant that England has
ever seen. God rest their souls in the place appointed
for all such!</p>

<p class='c001'>There was a moment of prayer at the Temple, the
procession moved down the country road, its way
walled on both sides by welcoming multitudes, and
so, by Charing Cross, and at last to the Abbey for
the great ceremonies. It was a grand day, and will
remain in men’s memories.</p>

<p class='c011'>That was as much of it as the spirit correspondent
could let me have; he was obliged to stop there
because he had an engagement to sing in the choir,
and was already late.</p>

<p class='c001'>The contrast between that old England and the
present England is one of the things which will make
the pageant of the present day impressive and
thought-breeding. The contrast between the England
of the Queen’s reign and the England of any previous
British reign is also an impressive thing. British
history is two thousand years old, and yet in a good
many ways the world has moved further ahead since
the Queen was born than it moved in all the rest of
the two thousand put together. A large part of this
progress has been moral, but naturally the material
part of it is the most striking and the easiest to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>measure. Since the Queen first saw the light she
has seen invented and brought into use (with the
exception of the cotton gin, the spinning frames, and
the steamboat) every one of the myriad of strictly
modern inventions which, by their united powers,
have created the bulk of the modern civilization and
made life under it easy and difficult, convenient and
awkward, happy and horrible, soothing and irritating,
grand and trivial, an indispensable blessing and
an unimaginable curse--she has seen all these
miracles, these wonders, these marvels piled up in
her time, and yet she is but seventy-eight years old.
That is to say, she has seen more things invented than
any other monarch that ever lived; and more than
the oldest old-time English commoner that ever lived,
including Old Parr; and more than Methuselah himself--five
times over.</p>

<p class='c001'>Some of the details of the moral advancement
which she has seen are also very striking and easily
graspable.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen the English criminal laws prodigiously
modified, and 200 capital crimes swept from the
statute book.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen English liberty greatly broadened--the
governing and lawmaking powers, formerly the
possession of the few, extended to the body of the
people, and purchase in the army abolished.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen the public educator--the newspaper--created,
and its teachings placed within the reach
of the leanest purse. There was nothing properly
describable as a newspaper until long after she was
born.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>She has seen the world’s literature set free, through
the institution of international copyright.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen America invent arbitration, the eventual
substitute for that enslaver of nations, the standing
army; and she has seen England pay the first
bill under it, and America shirk the second--but
only temporarily; of this we may be sure.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen a Hartford American (Doctor Wells)
apply anæsthetics in surgery for the first time in
history, and for all time banish the terrors of the
surgeon’s knife; and she has seen the rest of the
world ignore the discoverer and a Boston doctor
steal the credit of his work.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen medical science and scientific sanitation
cut down the death rate of civilized cities by
more than half, and she has seen these agencies set
bounds to the European march of the cholera and
imprison the Black Death in its own home.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen woman freed from the oppression of
many burdensome and unjust laws; colleges established
for her; privileged to earn degrees in men’s
colleges--but not get them; in some regions rights
accorded to her which lifted her near to political
equality with man, and a hundred bread-winning
occupations found for her where hardly one existed
before--among them medicine, the law, and professional
nursing. The Queen has herself recognized
merit in her sex; of the 501 lordships which
she has conferred in sixty years, one was upon a
woman.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Queen has seen the right to organize trade
unions extended to the workman, after that right had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>been the monopoly of guilds of masters for six
hundred years.</p>

<p class='c001'>She has seen the workman rise into political notice,
then into political force, then (in some parts of the
world) into the chief and commanding political force;
she has seen the day’s labor of twelve, fourteen, and
eighteen hours reduced to eight, a reform which has
made labor a means of extending life instead of a
means of committing salaried suicide.</p>

<p class='c001'>But it is useless to continue the list--it has no
end.</p>

<p class='c001'>There will be complexions in the procession to-day
which will suggest the vast distances to which the
British dominion has extended itself around the fat
rotundity of the globe since Britain was a remote
unknown back settlement of savages with tin for
sale, two or three thousand years ago; and also
how great a part of this extension is comparatively
recent; also, how surprisingly speakers of the English
tongue have increased within the Queen’s time.</p>

<p class='c001'>When the Queen was born there were not more
than 25,000,000 English-speaking people in the world;
there are about 120,000,000 now. The other long-reign
queen, Elizabeth, ruled over a short 100,000
square miles of territory and perhaps 5,000,000 subjects;
Victoria reigns over more territory than any
other sovereign in the world’s history ever reigned
over; her estate covers a fourth part of the habitable
area of the globe, and her subjects number about
400,000,000.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is indeed a mighty estate, and I perceive now
that the English are mentioned in the Bible:</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the
earth.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The Long-Reign Pageant will be a memorable
thing to see, for it stands for the grandeur of England,
and is full of suggestion as to how it had its beginning
and what have been the forces that have built it up.</p>

<p class='c001'>I got to my seat in the Strand just in time--five
minutes past ten--for a glance around before the
show began. The houses opposite, as far as the eye
could reach in both directions, suggested boxes in a
theater snugly packed. The gentleman next to me
likened the groups to beds of flowers, and said he
had never seen such a massed and multitudinous
array of bright colors and fine clothes.</p>

<p class='c001'>These displays rose up and up, story by story, all
balconies and windows being packed, and also the
battlements stretching along the roofs. The sidewalks
were filled with standing people, but were not
uncomfortably crowded. They were fenced from
the roadway by red-coated soldiers, a double stripe
of vivid color which extended throughout the six
miles which the procession would traverse.</p>

<p class='c001'>Five minutes later the head of the column came
into view and was presently filing by, led by Captain
Ames, the tallest man in the British army. And then
the cheering began. It took me but a little while to
determine that this procession could not be described.
There was going to be too much of it, and too much
variety in it, so I gave up the idea. It was to be a
spectacle for the kodak, not the pen.</p>

<p class='c001'>Presently the procession was without visible
beginning or end, but stretched to the limit of sight
<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>in both directions--bodies of soldiery in blue, followed
by a block of soldiers in buff, then a block of
red, a block of buff, a block of yellow, and so on, an
interminable drift of swaying and swinging splotches
of strong color sparkling and flashing with shifty
light reflected from bayonets, lance heads, brazen
helmets, and burnished breastplates. For varied and
beautiful uniforms and unceasing surprises in the
way of new and unexpected splendors, it much surpassed
any pageant that I have ever seen.</p>

<p class='c001'>I was not dreaming of so stunning a show. All
the nations seemed to be filing by. They all seemed
to be represented. It was a sort of allegorical suggestion
of the Last Day, and some who live to see
that day will probably recall this one if they are not
too much disturbed in mind at the time.</p>

<p class='c001'>There were five bodies of Oriental soldiers of five
different nationalities, with complexions differentiated
by five distinct shades of yellow. There were about
a dozen bodies of black soldiers from various parts
of Africa, whose complexions covered as many shades
of black, and some of these were the very blackest
people I have ever seen yet.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then there was an exhaustive exhibition of the
hundred separate brown races of India, the most
beautiful and satisfying of all the complexions that
have been vouchsafed to man, and the one which
best sets off colored clothes and best harmonizes
with all tints.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Chinese, the Japanese, the Koreans, the
Africans, the Indians, the Pacific Islanders--they
were all there, and with them samples of all the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>whites that inhabit the wide reach of the Queen’s
dominions.</p>

<p class='c001'>The procession was the human race on exhibition,
a spectacle curious and interesting and worth traveling
far to see. The most splendid of the costumes
were those worn by the Indian princes, and they
were also the most beautiful and richest. They were
men of stately build and princely carriage, and
wherever they passed the applause burst forth.</p>

<p class='c001'>Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, and still more and more
soldiers and cannon and muskets and lances--there
seemed to be no end to this feature. There are
50,000 soldiers in London, and they all seemed to be
on hand. I have not seen so many except in the
theater, when thirty-five privates and a general
march across the stage and behind the scenes and
across the front again and keep it up till they have
represented 300,000.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the early part of the procession the colonial
premiers drove by, and by and by after a long time
there was a grand output of foreign princes, thirty-one
in the invoice.</p>

<p class='c001'>The feature of high romance was not wanting, for
among them rode Prince Rupert of Bavaria, who
would be Prince of Wales now and future king of
England and emperor of India if his Stuart ancestors
had conducted their royal affairs more wisely than
they did. He came as a peaceful guest to represent
his mother, Princess Ludwig, heiress of the house of
Stuart, to whom English Jacobites still pay unavailing
homage as the rightful queen of England.</p>

<p class='c001'>The house of Stuart was formally and officially
<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>shelved nearly two centuries ago, but the microbe
of Jacobite loyalty is a thing which is not exterminable
by time, force, or argument.</p>

<p class='c001'>At last, when the procession had been on view an
hour and a half, carriages began to appear. In the
first came a detachment of two-horse ones containing
ambassadors extraordinary, in one of them Whitelaw
Reid, representing the United States; then six containing
minor foreign and domestic princes and
princesses; then five four-horse carriages freighted
with offshoots of the family.</p>

<p class='c001'>The excitement was growing now; interest was
rising toward the boiling point. Finally a landau
driven by eight cream-colored horses, most lavishly
<a id='corr209.15'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='unholstered'>upholstered</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_209.15'><ins class='correction' title='unholstered'>upholstered</ins></a></span> in gold stuffs, with postilions and no
drivers, and preceded by Lord Wolseley, came bowling
along, followed by the Prince of Wales, and all
the world rose to its feet and uncovered.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Queen Empress was come. She was received
with great enthusiasm. It was realizable that she
was the procession herself; that all the rest of it was
mere embroidery; that in her the public saw the
British Empire itself. She was a symbol, an allegory of
England’s grandeur and the might of the British name.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is over now; the British Empire has marched past
under review and inspection. The procession stood for
sixty years of progress and accumulation, moral, material,
and political. It was made up rather of the beneficiaries
of these prosperities than of the creators of them.</p>

<p class='c001'>As far as mere glory goes, the foreign trade of
Great Britain has grown in a wonderful way since the
Queen ascended the throne. Last year it reached
<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>the enormous figure of £620,000,000, but the capitalist,
the manufacturer, the merchant, and the
workingmen were not officially in the procession to
get their large share of the resulting glory.</p>

<p class='c001'>Great Britain has added to her real estate an average
of 165 miles of territory per day for the past
sixty years, which is to say she has added more than
the bulk of an England proper per year, or an aggregate
of seventy Englands in the sixty years.</p>

<p class='c001'>But Cecil Rhodes was not in the procession; the
Chartered Company was absent from it. Nobody
was there to collect his share of the glory due for
his formidable contributions to the imperial estate.
Even Doctor Jameson was out, and yet he had tried
so hard to accumulate territory.</p>

<p class='c001'>Eleven colonial premiers were in the procession,
but the dean of the order, the imperial Premier, was
not, nor the Lord Chief Justice of England, nor the
Speaker of the House. The bulk of the religious
strength of England dissent was not officially represented
in the religious ceremonials. At the Cathedral
that immense new industry, speculative expansion,
was not represented unless the pathetic shade of
Barnato rode invisible in the pageant.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was a memorable display and must live in history.
It suggested the material glories of the reign
finely and adequately. The absence of the chief
creators of them was perhaps not a serious disadvantage.
One could supply the vacancies by imagination,
and thus fill out the procession very effectively.
One can enjoy a rainbow without necessarily
forgetting the forces that made it.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>LETTERS TO SATAN <br /> <span class='small'>(1897)</span></h2>
</div>

<h3 class='c012'>SWISS GLIMPSES</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c000'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>If Your Grace would prepay your postage it would
be a pleasant change. I am not meaning to
speak harshly, but only sorrowfully. My remark
applies to all my outland correspondents, and to
everybody’s. None of them puts on the full postage,
and that is just the same as putting on none at all:
the foreign governments ignore the half postage,
and we who are abroad have to pay full postage on
those half-paid letters. And as for writing on thin
paper, none of my friends ever think of it; they all
use pasteboard, or sole leather, or things like that.
But enough of that subject; it is painful.</p>

<p class='c001'>I believe you have set me a hard task; for if it is
true that you have not been in the world for three
hundred years, and have not received into your
establishment an educated person in all that time,
I shall be obliged to talk to you as if you had just
been born and knew nothing at all about the things
I speak of. However, I will do the best I can, and
will faithfully try to put in all the particulars,
trivial ones as well as the other sorts. If my report
shall induce Your Grace to come out of your age-long
<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>seclusion and make a pleasure tour through the
world in person, instead of doing it by proxy through
me, I shall feel that I have labored to good purpose.
You have many friends in the world; more than
you think. You would have a vast welcome in
Paris, London, New York, Chicago, Washington,
and the other capitals of the world; if you would
go on the lecture platform you could charge what
you pleased. You would be the most formidable
attraction on the planet. The curiosity to see you
would be so great that no place of amusement would
contain the multitude that would come. In London
many devoted people who have seen the Prince of
Wales only fifteen hundred or two thousand times
would be willing to miss one chance of seeing him
again for the sake of seeing you. In Paris, even
with the Tsar on view, you could do a fairly good
business; and in Chicago--Oh, but you ought to
go to Chicago, you know. But further of this anon.
I will to my report, now, and tell you about Lucerne,
and how I journeyed hither; for doubtless you will
travel by the same route when you come.</p>

<p class='c001'>I kept house a few months in London, with my
family, while I arranged the matters which you were
good enough to intrust me with. There were no
adventures, except that we saw the Jubilee. Afterward
I was invited to one of the Queen’s functions,
which was a royal garden party. A garden is a
green and bloomy countrified stretch of land which--But
you remember the Garden of Eden; well,
it is like that. The invitation prescribed the costume
that must be worn: “Morning dress with trousers.”
<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>I was intending to wear mine, for I always wear
something at garden parties where ladies are to be
present; but I was hurt by this arbitrary note of
compulsion, and did not go. All the European courts
are particular about dress, and you are not allowed
to choose for yourself in any case; you are always
told exactly what you must wear; and whether it is
going to become you or not, you are not allowed to
make any changes. Yet the court taste is often bad,
and sometimes even indelicate. I was once invited
to dine with an emperor when I was living awhile
in Germany, and the invitation card named the
dress I must wear: “Frock coat and black cravat.”
To put it in English, that meant swallow-tail and
black cravat. It was cold weather, too, the middle
of winter; and not only that, but ladies were to be
present. That was five years ago. By this time the
coat has gone out, I suppose, and you would feel
at home there if you still remember the old Eden
styles.</p>

<p class='c001'>As soon as the Jubilee was fairly over we broke
up housekeeping and went for a few days to what
is called in England “an hotel.” If we could have
afforded an horse and an hackney cab we could have
had an heavenly good time flitting around on our
preparation errands, and could have finished them
up briskly; but the buses are slow and they wasted
many precious hours for us. A bus is a sort of
great cage on four wheels, and is six times as strong
and eleven times as heavy as the service required
of it demands--but that is the English of it. The
bus aptly symbolizes the national character. The
<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>Englishman requires that everything about him
shall be stable, strong, and permanent, except the
house which he builds to rent. His own private
house is as strong as a fort. The rod which holds
up the lace curtains could hold up an hippopotamus.
The three-foot flagstaff on his bus, which supports
a Union Jack the size of a handkerchief, would still
support it if it were one of the gates of Gaza. Everything
he constructs is a deal heavier and stronger
than it needs to be. He built ten miles of terraced
benches to view the Jubilee procession from, and
put timber enough in them to make them a permanent
contribution to the solidities of the world--yet
they were intended for only two days’ service.</p>

<p class='c001'>When they were being removed an American said,
“Don’t do it--save them for the Resurrection.”
If anything gets in the way of the Englishman’s
bus it must get out of it or be bowled down--and
that is English. It is the serene self-sufficient spirit
which has carried his flag so far. He ought to put
his aggressive bus in his coat of arms, and take the
gentle unicorn out.</p>

<p class='c001'>We made our preparations for Switzerland as fast
as we could; then bought the tickets. Bought them
of Thomas Cook &amp; Sons, of course--nowadays
shortened to “Cook’s,” to save time and words.
Things have changed in thirty years. I can remember
when to be a “Cook’s tourist” was a thing to be
ashamed of, and when everybody felt privileged to
make fun of Cook’s “personally conducted” gangs
of economical provincials. But that has all gone
by, now. All sorts and conditions of men fly to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>Cook in our days. In the bygone times travel in
Europe was made hateful and humiliating by the
wanton difficulties, hindrances, annoyances, and
vexations put upon it by ignorant, stupid, and disobliging
transportation officials, and one had to
travel with a courier or risk going mad. You could
not buy a railway ticket on one day which you
purposed to use next day--it was not permitted.
You could not buy a ticket for <em>any</em> train until
fifteen minutes before that train was due to leave.
Though you had twenty trunks, you must manage
somehow to get them weighed and the extra weight
paid for within that fifteen minutes; if the time was
not sufficient you would have to leave behind such
trunks as failed to pass the scales. If you missed
your train, your ticket was no longer good. As a
rule, you could make neither head nor tail of the
railway guide, and if your intended journey was a
long one you would find that the officials could tell
you little about which way to go; consequently
you often bought the wrong ticket and got yourself
lost. But Cook has remedied all these things and
made travel simple, easy, and a pleasure. He will
sell you a ticket to any place on the globe, or all the
places, and give you all the time you need, and
as much more besides; and it is good for all trains
of its class, and its baggage is weighable at all hours.
It provides hotels for you everywhere, if you so desire;
and you cannot be overcharged, for the coupons
show just how much you must pay. Cook’s servants
at the great stations will attend to your baggage,
get you a cab, tell you how much to pay cabmen and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>porters, procure guides for you, or horses, donkeys,
camels, bicycles, or anything else you want, and
make life a comfort and a satisfaction to you. And
if you get tired of traveling and want to stop, Cook
will take back the remains of your ticket, with 10
per cent off. Cook is your banker everywhere, and
his establishment your shelter when you get caught
out in the rain. His clerks will answer all the questions
you ask, and do it courteously. I recommend
Your Grace to travel on Cook’s tickets when you
come; and I do this without embarrassment, for I
get no commission. I do not know Cook. (But if
you would rather travel with a courier, let me
recommend Joseph Very. I employed him twenty
years ago, and spoke of him very highly in a book,
for he was an excellent courier--then. I employed
him again, six or seven years ago--for a while. Try
him. And when you go home, take him with you.)</p>

<p class='c001'>That London hotel was a disappointment. It was
up a back alley, and we supposed it would be cheap.
But, no, it was built for the moneyed races. It was
all costliness and show. It had a brass band for
dinner--and little else--and it even had a telephone
and a lift. A telephone is a wire stretched on poles
or underground, and has a thing at each end of it.
These things are to speak into and to listen at. The
wire carries the words; it can carry them several
hundred miles. It is a time-saving, profanity-breeding,
useful invention, and in America is to be
found in all houses except parsonages. It is dear
in America, but cheap in England; yet in England
telephones are as rare as are icebergs in your place.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>I know of no way to account for this; I only know
that it is extraordinary. The English take kindly
to the other modern conveniences, but for some
puzzling reason or other they will not use the telephone.
There are 44,000,000 people there who have
never even seen one.</p>

<p class='c001'>The lift is an elevator. Like the telephone, it
also is an American invention. Its office is to hoist
people to the upper stories and save them the fatigue
and delay of climbing. That London hotel could
accommodate several hundred people, and it had just
one lift--a lift which would hold four persons. In
America such an hotel would have from two to six
lifts. When I was last in Paris, three years ago, they
were using there what they thought was a lift. It
held two persons, and traveled at such a slow gait
that a spectator could not tell which way it was
going. If the passengers were going to the sixth
floor, they took along something to eat; and at
night, bedding. Old people did not use it; except
such as were on their way to the good place, anyhow.
Often people that had been lost for days were found
in those lifts, jogging along, jogging along, frequently
still alive. The French took great pride in their
ostensible lift, and called it by a grand name--<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>ascenseur</i></span>.
An hotel that had a lift did not keep it
secret, but advertised it in immense letters, <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i><a id='corr217.27'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Il'>“Il</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_217.27'><ins class='correction' title='Il'>“Il</ins></a></span>  y a une ascenseur,”</i></span> with three exclamation points after it.</p>

<p class='c001'>In that London hotel--But never mind that
hotel; it was a cruelly expensive and tawdry and
ill-conditioned place, and I wish I could do it a
damage. I will think up a way some time. We
<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>went to Queenboro by the railroad. A railroad is
a--well, a railroad is a railroad. I will describe it
more explicitly another time.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then we went by steamer to Flushing--eight
hours. If you sit at home you can make the trip
in less time, because then you can travel by the
steamer company’s advertisement, and that will
take you across the Channel five hours quicker than
their boats can do it. Almost everywhere in Europe
the advertisements can give the facts several hours’
odd in the twenty-four and get in first.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>We tarried overnight at a summer hotel on the
seashore near Flushing--the Grand Hôtel des Bains.
The word Grand means nothing in this connection;
it has no descriptive value. On the Continent, all
hotels, inns, taverns, hash houses and slop troughs
employ it. It is tiresome. This one was a good-enough
hotel, and comfortable, but there was nothing
grand about it but the bill, and even that was
not extravagant enough to make the title entirely
justifiable. Except in the case of one item--Scotch
whisky. I ordered a sup of that, for I always take
it at night as a preventive of toothache. I have
never had the toothache; and what is more, I never
intend to have it. They charged me a dollar and a
half for it. A dollar and a half for half a pint; a
dollar and a half for that wee little mite--really
hardly enough to break a pledge with. It will be a
kindness to me if Your Grace will show the landlord
<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>some special attentions when he arrives. Not
merely on account of that piece of extortion, but
because he got us back to town and the station
next day, more than an hour before train time.</p>

<p class='c001'>There were no books or newspapers for sale there,
and nothing to look at but a map. Fortunately it
was an interesting one. It was a railway map of
the Low Countries, and was of a new sort to me,
for it was made of tiles--the ground white, the
lines black. It could be washed if it got soiled, and
if no accident happens to it it will last ten thousand
years and still be as bright and fine and new and
beautiful then as it is to-day. It occupied a great
area of the wall, and one could study it in comfort
halfway across the house. It would be a valuable
thing if our own railway companies would adorn
their waiting rooms with maps like that.</p>

<p class='c001'>We left at five in the afternoon. The Dutch road
was admirably rough; we went bumping and bouncing
and swaying and sprawling along in a most
vindictive and disorderly way; then passed the
frontier into Germany, and straightway quieted
down and went gliding as smoothly through the
landscape as if we had been on runners. We reached
Cologne after midnight.</p>

<p class='c001'>But this letter is already too long. I will close it
by saying that I was charmed with England and
sorry to leave it. It is easy to do business there. I
carried out all of Your Grace’s instructions, and did
it without difficulty. I doubted if it was needful to
grease Mr. Cecil Rhodes’s palm any further, for I
think he would serve you just for the love of it;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>still, I obeyed your orders in the matter. I made him
Permanent General Agent for South Africa, got him
and his South Africa Company whitewashed by the
Committee of Inquiry, and promised him a dukedom.
I also continued the European Concert in office,
without making any change in its material. In my
opinion this is the best material for the purpose that
exists outside of Your Grace’s own personal Cabinet.
It coddles the Sultan, it has defiled and degraded
Greece, it has massacred a hundred thousand Christians
in Armenia and a splendid multitude of them
in Turkey, and has covered civilization and the
Christian name with imperishable shame. If Your
Grace would instruct me to add the Concert to the
list of your publicly acknowledged servants, I think it
would have a good effect. The Foreign Offices of
the whole European world are now under your
sovereignty, and little attentions like this would keep
them so.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>A WORD OF ENCOURAGEMENT FOR OUR <br /></h2>
</div>
<p class='c011'>BLUSHING EXILES | <span class='small'>(1898)</span></p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c011'>... Well, what do you think of our country <em>now</em>? And
what do you think of the figure she is cutting before the eyes
of the world? For one, I am ashamed--(Extract from a long
and heated letter from a Voluntary Exile, Member of the
American Colony, Paris.)</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>And so you are ashamed. I am trying to think
out what it can have been that has produced
this large attitude of mind and this fine flow of sarcasm.
Apparently you are ashamed to look Europe
in the face; ashamed of the American name; temporarily
ashamed of your nationality. By the light
of remarks made to me by an American here in
Vienna, I judge that you are ashamed because:</p>

<p class='c001'>1. We are meddling where we have no business and
no right; meddling with the private family matters
of a sister nation; intruding upon her sacred right
to do as she pleases with her own, unquestioned by
anybody.</p>

<p class='c001'>2. We are doing this under a sham humanitarian
pretext.</p>

<p class='c001'>3. Doing it in order to filch Cuba, the formal and
distinct disclaimer in the ultimatum being very, very
thin humbug, and easily detectable as such by you
and virtuous Europe.</p>

<p class='c001'>4. And finally you are ashamed of all this because
<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>it is new, and base, and brutal, and dishonest; and
because Europe, having had no previous experience
of such things, is horrified by it and can never respect
us nor associate with us any more.</p>

<p class='c001'>Brutal, base, dishonest? We? Land thieves?
Shedders of innocent blood? We? Traitors to our
official word? We? Are we going to lose Europe’s
respect because of this new and dreadful conduct?
Russia’s, for instance? Is she lying stretched out on
her back in Manchuria, with her head among her
Siberian prisons and her feet in Port Arthur, trying
to read over the fairy tales she told Lord Salisbury,
and not able to do it for crying because we are
maneuvering to treacherously smouch Cuba from
feeble Spain, and because we are ungently shedding
innocent Spanish blood?</p>

<p class='c001'>Is it France’s respect that we are going to lose?
Is our unchivalric conduct troubling a nation which
exists to-day because a brave young girl saved it
when its poltroons had lost it--a nation which
deserted her as one man when her day of peril came?
Is our treacherous assault upon a weak people distressing
a nation which contributed Bartholomew’s
Day to human history? Is our ruthless spirit offending
the sensibilities of the nation which gave us the
Reign of Terror to read about? Is our unmanly
intrusion into the private affairs of a sister nation
shocking the feelings of the people who sent Maximilian
to Mexico? Are our shabby and pusillanimous
ways outraging the fastidious people who have
sent an innocent man (Dreyfus) to a living hell,
taken to their embraces the slimy guilty one, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>submitted to a thousand indignities Emile Zola--the
manliest man in France?</p>

<p class='c001'>Is it Spain’s respect that we are going to lose? Is
she sitting sadly conning her great history and contrasting
it with our meddling, cruel, perfidious one--our
shameful history of foreign robberies, humanitarian
shams, and annihilations of weak and unoffending
nations? Is she remembering with pride
how she sent Columbus home in chains; how she
sent half of the harmless West Indians into slavery
and the rest to the grave, leaving not one alive; how
she robbed and slaughtered the Inca’s gentle race,
then beguiled the Inca into her power with fair
promises and burned him at the stake; how she
drenched the New World in blood, and earned and
got the name of The Nation with the Bloody Footprint;
how she drove all the Jews out of Spain in a
day, allowing them to sell their property, but forbidding
them to carry any money out of the country;
how she roasted heretics by the thousands and thousands
in her public squares, generation after generation,
her kings and her priests looking on as at a
holiday show; how her Holy Inquisition imported
hell into the earth; how she was the first to institute
it and the last to give it up--and then only under
compulsion; how, with a spirit unmodified by time,
she still tortures her prisoners to-day; how, with her
ancient passion for pain and blood unchanged, she
still crowds the arena with ladies and gentlemen and
priests to see with delight a bull harried and persecuted
and a gored horse dragging his entrails on the
ground; and how, with this incredible character surviving
<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>all attempts to civilize it, her Duke of Alva
rises again in the person of General Weyler--to-day
the most idolized personage in Spain--and we see a
hundred thousand women and children shut up in
pens and pitilessly starved to death?</p>

<p class='c001'>Are we indeed going to lose Spain’s respect? Is
there no way to avoid this calamity--or this compliment?
Are we going to lose her respect because we
have made a promise in our ultimatum which she
thinks we shall break? And meantime is she trying
to recall some promise of her own which she has
kept?</p>

<p class='c001'>Is the Professional Official Fibber of Europe really
troubled with our morals? Dear Parisian friend, are
you taking seriously the daily remark of the newspaper
and the orator about “this noble nation with
an illustrious history”? That is mere kindness, mere
charity for a people in temporary hard luck. The
newspaper and the orator do not mean it. They
wink when they say it.</p>

<p class='c001'>And so you are ashamed. Do not be ashamed;
there is no occasion for it.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>DUELING <br /> <span class='small'>(Vienna, Austria, 1898)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>This pastime is as common in Austria to-day as
it is in France. But with this difference--that
here in the Austrian states the duel is dangerous,
while in France it is not. Here it is tragedy, in
France it is comedy; here it is a solemnity, there it
is monkeyshines; here the duelist risks his life, there
he does not even risk his shirt. Here he fights with
pistol or saber, in France with a hairpin--a blunt
one. Here the desperately wounded man tries to
walk to the hospital; there they paint the scratch so
that they can find it again, lay the sufferer on a
stretcher, and conduct him off the field with a band
of music.</p>

<p class='c001'>At the end of a French duel the pair hug and kiss
and cry, and praise each other’s valor; then the surgeons
make an examination and pick out the scratched
one, and the other one helps him on to the litter and
pays his fare; and in return the scratched one treats
to champagne and oysters in the evening, and then
“the incident is closed,” as the French say. It is all
polite, and gracious, and pretty, and impressive. At
the end of an Austrian duel the antagonist that is
alive gravely offers his hand to the other man, utters
some phrases of courteous regret, then bids him
good-by and goes his way, and that incident also is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>closed. The French duelist is painstakingly protected
from danger, by the rules of the game. His
antagonist’s weapon cannot reach so far as his body;
if he gets a scratch it will not be above his elbow.
But in Austria the rules of the game do not provide
against danger, they carefully provide <em>for</em> it, usually.
Commonly the combat must be kept up until one of
the men is disabled; a nondisabling slash or stab
does not retire him.</p>

<p class='c001'>For a matter of three months I watched the
Viennese journals, and whenever a duel was reported
in their telegraphic columns I scrap-booked it. By
this record I find that dueling in Austria is not confined
to journalists and old maids, as in France, but
is indulged in by military men, journalists, students,
physicians, lawyers, members of the legislature, and
even the Cabinet, the bench, and the police. Dueling
is forbidden by law; and so it seems odd to see the
makers and administrators of the laws dancing on
their work in this way. Some months ago Count
Badeni, at that time chief of the government, fought
a pistol duel here in the capital city of the Empire
with Representative Wolf, and both of those distinguished
Christians came near getting turned out of
the Church--for the Church as well as the state forbids
dueling.</p>

<p class='c001'>In one case, lately, in Hungary, the police interfered
and stopped a duel after the first innings. This
was a saber duel between the chief of police and the
city attorney. Unkind things were said about it by
the newspapers. They said the police remembered
their duty uncommonly well when their own officials
<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>were the parties concerned in duels. But I think the
underlings showed bread-and-butter judgment. If
their superiors had carved each other well, the public
would have asked, “Where were the police?” and
their place would have been endangered; but custom
does not require them to be around where mere
unofficial citizens are explaining a thing with sabers.</p>

<p class='c001'>There was another duel--a double duel--going on
in the immediate neighborhood at the time, and in
this case the police obeyed custom and did not disturb
it. Their bread and butter was not at stake
there. In this duel a physician fought a couple of
surgeons, and wounded both--one of them lightly, the
other seriously. An undertaker wanted to keep people
from interfering, but that was quite natural again.</p>

<p class='c001'>Selecting at random from my record, I next find
a duel at Tranopol between military men. An
officer of the Tenth Dragoons charged an officer of
the Ninth Dragoons with an offense against the laws
of the card table. There was a defect or a doubt
somewhere in the matter, and this had to be examined
and passed upon by a court of honor. So the
case was sent up to Lemberg for this purpose. One
would like to know what the defect was, but the
newspaper does not say. A man here who has fought
many duels and has a graveyard says that probably
the matter in question was as to whether the accusation
was true or not; that if the charge was a very
grave one--cheating, for instance--proof of its truth
would rule the guilty officer out of the field of honor;
the court would not allow a gentleman to fight with
such a person. You see what a solemn thing it is;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>you see how particular they are; any little careless
speech can lose you your privilege of getting yourself
shot, here. The court seems to have gone into the
matter in a searching and careful fashion, for several
months elapsed before it reached a decision. It then
sanctioned a duel and the accused killed his accuser.</p>

<p class='c001'>Next I find a duel between a prince and a major;
first with pistols--no result satisfactory to either
party; then with sabers, and the major badly hurt.</p>

<p class='c001'>Next, a saber duel between journalists--the one a
strong man, the other feeble and in poor health. It
was brief; the strong one drove his sword through
the weak one, and death was immediate.</p>

<p class='c001'>Next, a duel between a lieutenant and a student
of medicine. According to the newspaper report,
these are the details: The student was in a restaurant
one evening; passing along, he halted at a
table to speak with some friends; near by sat a
dozen military men; the student conceived that one
of these was “staring” at him; he asked the officer
to step outside and explain. This officer and another
one gathered up their capes and sabers and went out
with the student. Outside--this is the student’s
account--the student introduced himself to the
offending officer and said, “You seemed to stare at
me”; for answer, the officer struck the student with
his fist; the student parried the blow; both officers
drew their sabers and attacked the young fellow, and
one of them gave him a wound on the left arm; then
they withdrew. This was Saturday night. The duel
followed on Monday, in the military riding school--the
customary dueling ground all over Austria, apparently.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>The weapons were pistols. The dueling terms
were somewhat beyond custom in the matter of
severity, if I may gather that from the statement
that the combat was fought “<span lang="de" xml:lang="de">unter sehr schweren
Bedingungen</span>”--to wit, “distance, 15 steps--with 3
steps advance.” There was but one exchange of
shots. The student was hit. “He put his hand on
his breast, his body began to bend slowly forward,
then collapsed in death and sank to the ground.”</p>

<p class='c001'>It is pathetic. There are other duels in my list,
but I find in each and all of them one and the same
ever-recurring defect--the <em>principals</em> are never present,
but only by their sham representatives. The
<em>real</em> principals in any duel are not the duelists themselves,
but their <em>families</em>. They do the mourning,
the suffering; theirs is the loss and theirs the misery.
They stake all that, the duelist stakes nothing but
his life, and that is a trivial thing compared with
what his death must cost those whom he leaves
behind him. Challenges should not mention the
duelist; he has nothing much at stake, and the real
vengeance cannot reach him. The challenge should
summon the offender’s old gray mother and his
young wife and his little children--these, or any of
whom he is a dear and worshiped possession--and
should say, “You have done me no harm, but I am
the meek slave of a custom which requires me to
crush the happiness out of your hearts and condemn
you to years of pain and grief, in order that I may
wash clean with your tears a stain which has been
put upon me by another person.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The logic of it is admirable; a person has robbed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>me of a penny; I must beggar ten innocent persons
to make good my loss. Surely nobody’s “honor” is
worth all that.</p>

<p class='c001'>Since the duelist’s family are the real principals in
a duel, the state ought to compel them to be present
at it. Custom, also, ought to be so amended as to
require it; and without it no duel ought to be
allowed to go on. If that student’s unoffending
mother had been present and watching the officer
through her tears as he raised his pistol, he--why,
he would have fired in the air! We know that. For
we know how we are all made. Laws ought to be
based upon the ascertained facts of our nature. It
would be a simple thing to make a dueling law which
would stop dueling.</p>

<p class='c001'>As things are now, the mother is never invited.
She submits to this; and without outward complaint,
for she, too, is the vassal of custom, and
custom requires her to conceal her pain when she
learns the disastrous news that her son must go to
the dueling field, and by the powerful force that is
lodged in habit and custom she is enabled to obey
this trying requirement--a requirement which exacts
a miracle of her, and gets it. In January a neighbor
of ours who has a young son in the army was awakened
by this youth at three o’clock one morning, and
she sat up in bed and listened to his message:</p>

<p class='c001'>“I have come to tell you something, mother,
which will distress you, but you must be good and
brave and bear it. I have been affronted by a fellow
officer and we fight at three this afternoon. Lie
down and sleep, now, and think no more about it.”</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>She kissed him good night and lay down paralyzed
with grief and fear, but said nothing. But she did
not sleep; she prayed and mourned till the first
streak of dawn, then fled to the nearest church and
implored the Virgin for help; and from that church
she went to another and another; church after
church, and still church after church, and so spent
all the day until three o’clock on her knees in agony
and tears; then dragged herself home and sat down,
comfortless and desolate, to count the minutes, and
wait, with an outward show of calm, for what had
been ordained for her--happiness, or endless misery.
Presently she heard the clank of a saber--she had
not known before what music was in that sound--and
her son put his head in and said:</p>

<p class='c001'>“X was in the wrong and he apologized.”</p>

<p class='c001'>So that incident was closed; and for the rest of
her life the mother will always find something pleasant
about the clank of a saber, no doubt.</p>

<p class='c001'>In one of my listed duels--However, let it go,
there is nothing particularly striking about it except
that the seconds interfered. And prematurely, too,
for neither man was dead. This was certainly irregular.
Neither of the men liked it. It was a duel with
cavalry sabers, between an editor and a lieutenant.
The editor walked to the hospital; the lieutenant
was carried. In Austria an editor who can write
well is valuable, but he is not likely to remain so
unless he can handle a saber with charm.</p>

<p class='c001'>The following very recent telegram shows that also
in France duels are humanely stopped as soon as
they approach the (French) danger point:</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>(Reuter’s Telegram)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Paris</span>, <i>March 5th</i>.</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The duel between Colonels Henry and Picquart took place
this morning in the riding school of the École Militaire, the
doors of which were strictly guarded in order to prevent intrusion.
The combatants, who fought with swords, were in position
at ten o’clock.</p>

<p class='c001'>At the first re-engagement Lieut.-Col. Henry was slightly
scratched in the forearm, and just at the same moment his own
blade appeared to touch his adversary’s neck. Senator Ranc,
who was Colonel Picquart’s second, stopped the fight, but as
it was found that his principal had not been touched, the combat
continued. A very sharp encounter ensued, in which Colonel
Henry was wounded in the elbow, and the duel then terminated.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>After which the stretcher and the band. In lurid
contrast with this delicate flirtation, we have an
account of a deadly duel of day before yesterday in
Italy, where the earnest Austrian duel is in vogue.
I knew one of the principals, Cavalotti, slightly, and
this gives me a sort of personal interest in his duel.
I first saw him in Rome several years ago. He was
sitting on a block of stone in the Forum, and was
writing something in his notebook--a poem or a
challenge, or something like that--and the friend
who pointed him out to me said, “That is Cavalotti--he
has fought thirty duels; do not disturb him.”
I did not disturb him.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>SKELETON PLAN OF A PROPOSED <br />CASTING VOTE PARTY <br /><span class='small'>(1901)</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c011'><span class='sc'>Note.</span>--Mark Twain’s effort was always for clean politics. In
1901 he formulated what to him seemed a feasible plan to obtain
this boon. It is here first published.--A. B. P.</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>ITS MAIN OBJECT</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>To compel the two Great Parties to nominate
their <em>best man</em> always.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>FOUNDATION PRINCIPLES</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>With the offices all filled by the best men of
either of the two Great Parties, we shall have good
government. We hold that this is beyond dispute,
and does not need to be argued.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>DETAILS</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>1. The C. V. Party should be <em>organized</em>. This,
in order to secure its continuance and permanency.</p>

<p class='c001'>2. Any of the following acts must sever the connection
of a member with the Casting Vote party:</p>

  <ul  class='ul_1'>
    <li>The seeking of any office, appointive or elective.
    </li>
    <li>The acceptance of a nomination to any such office.
    </li>
    <li>The acceptance of such an office.
    </li>
  </ul>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>3. The organization should never vote for <em>any but
a nominee of one or the other of the two Great Parties</em>,
and should then cast their <em>entire vote</em> for that nominee.</p>

<p class='c001'>4. They should have no dealings with minor
parties.</p>

<p class='c001'>5. There should be ward organizations, township,
town, city, congressional district, state and national
organizations. The party should work wherever
there is an elective office, from the lowest up to the
Presidency.</p>

<p class='c001'>6. As a rule, none of the organizations will need
to be large. In most cases they will be able to control
the action of the two Great Parties without that.
In the matter of membership, quality will be the
main thing, rather than quantity.</p>

<p class='c001'>In small constituencies, where a town constable or
a justice of the peace is to be elected it will often be
the case that a Casting Vote lodge of fifty members
can elect the nominee it prefers. In every such
community the material for the fifty is present. It
will be found among the men who are disgusted with
the prevailing political methods, the low ambitions
and ideals, of the politicians; dishonesty in office;
corruption; the frank distribution of appointments
among characterless and incompetent men as pay
for party service; the evasion and sometimes
straight-out violation of the civil-service laws. The
fifty will be found among the men who are ashamed
of this condition of things and who have despaired of
seeing it bettered; <em>who stay away from the polls and
do not vote;</em> who do not attend primaries, and would
be insulted there if they did.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>The fifty exist in every little community; they
are not seen, not heard, not regarded--but they are
there. There, and deeply and sincerely desirous of
good and sound government, and ready to give the
best help they can if any will place before them a
competent way. They are reserved and quiet merchants
and shopkeepers, middle-aged; they are
young men making their way in the offices of doctors
and lawyers and behind counters; they are journeyman
high-class mechanics; they are organizers of,
and workers for, the community’s charities, art and
other social-improvement clubs, university settlements,
Young Men’s Christian Association, circulating
libraries; they are readers of books, frequenters
of the library. They have never seen a primary,
and they have an aversion for the polls.</p>

<p class='c001'>7. Men proposing to create a Casting Vote lodge
should not advertise their purpose; conspiracies for
good, like conspiracies for evil, are best conducted
privately until success is sure. The poll of the two
Great Parties should be examined, and the winning
party’s majority noted. <em>It is this majority which
the Casting Vote must overcome and nullify.</em> If the
total vote cast was 1,000 and the majority vote
fifty, the proposers of a lodge should canvass
privately until they have secured 75 or 100 names;
they can organize then, without solicitude; the
balance of power is in their hands, and this fact by
itself will add names to its membership. If the total
vote is 10,000 and the majority vote 1,000, the procedure
should be as before: the thousand-and-upward
should be secured by private canvass before
<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>public organization is instituted. Where a total
vote is 1,000,000 the majority vote is not likely to
exceed 30,000. Five or six canvassers can begin the
listing; each man secured becomes a canvasser,
ten know three apiece who will join; the thirty
know three apiece who will join; the ninety know
three hundred, the three hundred know a thousand,
the thousand know three thousand--and so on; the
required thirty or forty thousand can be secured in
ten days, the lodge organized, and its casting vote
be ready and self-pledged and competent to elect
the best of the nominees the two Great Parties may
put up at that date or later.</p>

<p class='c001'>8. In every ward of every city there is enough of
this material to hold the balance of power over the
two Great Parties in a ward election; in every city
there is enough of it to determine which of the two
nominees shall be mayor; in every congressional
district there is enough of it to elect the Governor;
also to elect the legislature and choose the U. S.
Senators; and in the United States there is enough
of it to throw the Casting Vote for its choice between
the nominees of the two Great Parties and seat him
in the presidential chair.</p>

<p class='c001'>9. From constable up to President there is no
office for which the two Great Parties cannot furnish
able, clean, and acceptable men. Whenever the
balance of power shall be lodged in a permanent
third party with no candidates of its own and no
function but to cast its <em>whole vote</em> for the best man
put forward by the Republicans and Democrats,
these two parties <em>will select the best men they have in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>their ranks</em>. Good and clean government will follow,
let its party complexion be what it may; and the
country will be quite content.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>THE LODGES</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>The primal lodge--call it A--should consist of
10 men only. It is enough and can meet in a dwelling
house or a shop, and get well acquainted at
once. It has before it the names of the nominees
of the two Great Parties--Jones (Republican), Smith
(Democrat). It fails of unanimity--both candidates
perchance being good men and about equally acceptable--and
casts seven votes, say, for Jones and three
for Smith.</p>

<p class='c001'>It elects one of its ten to meet similar delegates
from any number of local A lodges and hand in its
vote. This body--call it a B lodge--examines the
aggregate vote; this time the majority may be with
Smith. The members carry the result to the A
lodges; and these, by the conditions of their membership,
must vote for Smith.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the case of a state election, bodies each consisting
of a number of B lodges would elect a delegate
to a state council, and the state council would
examine the aggregate vote and give its decision in
favor of the Republican or Democratic candidate
receiving the majority of the Casting Vote’s suffrages.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the case of a presidential contest, the state
council would appoint delegates to a national convention,
and these would examine the aggregate
Casting Vote vote and determine and announce the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>choice of the Casting Vote organizations of the whole
country. At the presidential election the A lodges
throughout the land would vote for presidential
electors of the Party indicated.</p>

<p class='c001'>If the reader thinks well of the project, let him
begin a private canvass among his friends and give
it a practical test, without waiting for other people
to begin. If in the hands of men who regard their
citizenship as a high trust this scheme shall fail
upon trial, a better must be sought, a better must
be invented; for it cannot be well or safe to let the
present political conditions continue indefinitely.
They can be improved, and American citizenship
should rouse up from its disheartenment and see that
it is done.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE UNITED STATES OF LYNCHERDOM <br /> <span class='small'>(1901)</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c011'>law, and when in 1901 a particularly barbarous incident occurred
in his native state he was moved to express himself in print. The
article was not offered for publication, perhaps because the moment
of timeliness had passed. Its general timeliness, however, is perennial
and a word from “America’s foremost private citizen” on
the subject is worthy of preservation.--A. B. P.</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>And so Missouri has fallen, that great state!
Certain of her children have joined the lynchers,
and the smirch is upon the rest of us. That handful
of her children have given us a character and labeled
us with a name, and to the dwellers in the four
quarters of the earth we are “lynchers,” now, and
ever shall be. For the world will not stop and think--it
never does, it is not its way; its way is to
generalize from a single sample. It will not say,
“Those Missourians have been busy eighty years
in building an honorable good name for themselves;
these hundred lynchers down in the corner of the
state are not real Missourians, they are renegades.”
No, that truth will not enter its mind; it will generalize
from the one or two misleading samples and
say, “The Missourians are lynchers.” It has no
reflection, no logic, no sense of proportion. With
it, figures go for nothing; to it, figures reveal nothing,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>it cannot reason upon them rationally; it
would say, for instance, that China is being swiftly
and surely Christianized, since nine Chinese Christians
are being made every day; and it would fail,
with him, to notice that the fact that 33,000 pagans
are <em>born</em> there every day, damages the argument. It
would say, “There are a hundred lynchers there,
therefore the Missourians are lynchers”; the considerable
fact that there are two and a half million
Missourians who are <em>not</em> lynchers would not affect
their verdict.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Oh, Missouri!</p>

<p class='c001'>The tragedy occurred near Pierce City, down in
the southwestern corner of the state. On a Sunday
afternoon a young white woman who had started
alone from church was found murdered. For there
are churches there; in my time religion was more
general, more pervasive, in the South than it was
in the North, and more virile and earnest, too, I
think; I have some reason to believe that this is
still the case. The young woman was found murdered.
Although it was a region of churches and
schools the people rose, lynched three negroes--two
of them very aged ones--burned out five negro
households, and drove thirty negro families into the
woods.</p>

<p class='c001'>I do not dwell upon the provocation which moved
the people to these crimes, for that has nothing to
do with the matter; the only question is, does the
assassin <em>take the law into his own hands</em>? It is very
simple, and very just. If the assassin be proved to
<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>have usurped the law’s prerogative in righting his
wrongs, that ends the matter; a thousand provocations
are no defense. The Pierce City people had
bitter provocation--indeed, as revealed by certain
of the particulars, the bitterest of all provocations--but
no matter, they took the law into their own
hands, when by the terms of their statutes their
victim would certainly hang if the law had been
allowed to take its course, for there are but few
negroes in that region and they are without authority
and without influence in overawing juries.</p>

<p class='c001'>Why has lynching, with various barbaric accompaniments,
become a favorite regulator in cases of
“the usual crime” in several parts of the country?
Is it because men think a lurid and terrible punishment
a more forcible object lesson and a more effective
deterrent than a sober and colorless hanging
done privately in a jail would be? Surely sane men
do not think that. Even the average child should
know better. It should know that any strange and
much-talked-of event is always followed by imitations,
the world being so well supplied with excitable
people who only need a little stirring up to make
them lose what is left of their heads and do mad
things which they would not have thought of ordinarily.
It should know that if a man jump off Brooklyn
Bridge another will imitate him; that if a person
venture down Niagara Whirlpool in a barrel another
will imitate him; that if a Jack the Ripper make
notoriety by slaughtering women in dark alleys he
will be imitated; that if a man attempt a king’s
life and the newspapers carry the noise of it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>around the globe, regicides will crop up all around.
The child should know that one much-talked-of
outrage and murder committed by a negro will upset
the disturbed intellects of several other negroes and
produce a series of the very tragedies the community
would so strenuously wish to prevent; that each
of these crimes will produce another series, and year
by year steadily increase the tale of these disasters
instead of diminishing it; that, in a word, the
lynchers are themselves the worst enemies of their
women. The child should also know that by a law
of our make, communities, as well as individuals,
are imitators; and that a much-talked-of lynching
will infallibly produce other lynchings here and
there and yonder, and that in time these will breed a
mania, a fashion; a fashion which will spread wide
and wider, year by year, covering state after state,
as with an advancing disease. Lynching has reached
Colorado, it has reached California, it has reached
Indiana--and now Missouri! I may live to see a
negro burned in Union Square, New York, with
fifty thousand people present, and not a sheriff visible,
not a governor, not a constable, not a colonel,
not a clergyman, not a law-and-order representative
of any sort.</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'><i>Increase in Lynching.</i>--In 1900 there were eight more cases
than in 1899, and probably this year there will be more than
there were last year. The year is little more than half gone,
and yet there are eighty-eight cases as compared with one
hundred and fifteen for all of last year. The four Southern
states, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Mississippi are the
worst offenders. Last year there were eight cases in Alabama,
sixteen in Georgia, twenty in Louisiana, and twenty in Mississippi--over
<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>one-half the total. This year to date there have
been nine in Alabama, twelve in Georgia, eleven in Louisiana,
and thirteen in Mississippi--again more than one-half the total
number in the whole United States.--Chicago <cite>Tribune</cite>.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>It must be that the increase comes of the inborn
human instinct to imitate--that and man’s commonest
weakness, his aversion to being unpleasantly
conspicuous, pointed at, shunned, as being on the
unpopular side. Its other name is Moral Cowardice,
and is the commanding feature of the make-up of
9,999 men in the 10,000. I am not offering this as
a discovery; privately the dullest of us knows it
to be true. History will not allow us to forget or
ignore this supreme trait of our character. It persistently
and sardonically reminds us that from the
beginning of the world no revolt against a public
infamy or oppression has ever been begun but by
the one daring man in the 10,000, the rest timidly
waiting, and slowly and reluctantly joining, under
the influence of that man and his fellows from the
other ten thousands. The abolitionists remember.
Privately the public feeling was with them early,
but each man was afraid to speak out until he got
some hint that his neighbor was privately feeling
as he privately felt himself. Then the boom followed.
It always does. It will occur in New York,
some day; and even in Pennsylvania.</p>

<p class='c001'>It has been supposed--and said--that the people
at a lynching enjoy the spectacle and are glad of a
chance to see it. It cannot be true; all experience
is against it. The people in the South are made like
the people in the North--the vast majority of whom
<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>are right-hearted and compassionate, and would be
cruelly pained by such a spectacle--and <em>would
attend it</em>, and let on to be pleased with it, if the public
approval seemed to require it. We are made like
that, and we cannot help it. The other animals are
not so, but we cannot help that, either. They lack
the Moral Sense; we have no way of trading ours
off, for a nickel or some other thing above its value.
The Moral Sense teaches us what is right, and how
to avoid it--when unpopular.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is thought, as I have said, that a lynching
crowd enjoys a lynching. It certainly is not true;
it is impossible of belief. It is freely asserted--you
have seen it in print many times of late--that
the lynching impulse has been misinterpreted; that
it is <em>not</em> the outcome of a spirit of revenge, but of a
“mere atrocious hunger <em>to look upon human suffering</em>.”
If that were so, the crowds that saw the
Windsor Hotel burn down would have enjoyed the
horrors that fell under their eyes. Did they? No
one will think that of them, no one will make that
charge. Many risked their lives to save the men and
women who were in peril. Why did they do that?
Because <em>none would disapprove</em>. There was no
restraint; they could follow their natural impulse.
Why does a crowd of the same kind of people in
Texas, Colorado, Indiana, stand by, smitten to the
heart and miserable, and by ostentatious outward
signs pretend to enjoy a lynching? Why does it
lift no hand or voice in protest? Only because it
would be unpopular to do it, I think; each man is
afraid of his neighbor’s disapproval--a thing which,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>to the general run of the race, is more dreaded than
wounds and death. When there is to be a lynching
the people hitch up and come miles to see it, bringing
their wives and children. Really to see it? No--they
come only because they are afraid to stay at
home, lest it be noticed and offensively commented
upon. We may believe this, for we all know how
<em>we</em> feel about such spectacles--also, how we would
act under the like pressure. We are not any better
nor any braver than anybody else, and we must
not try to creep out of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>A Savonarola can quell and scatter a mob of
lynchers with a mere glance of his eye: so can a
Merrill<a id='r7' /><a href='#f7' class='c022'><sup>[7]</sup></a> or a Beloat.<a id='r8' /><a href='#f8' class='c022'><sup>[8]</sup></a> For no mob has any sand in
the presence of a man known to be splendidly brave.
Besides, a lynching mob would <em>like</em> to be scattered,
for of a certainty there are never ten men in it who
would not prefer to be somewhere else--and would
be, if they but had the courage to go. When I was
a boy I saw a brave gentleman deride and insult a
mob and drive it away; and afterward, in Nevada,
I saw a noted desperado make two hundred men
sit still, with the house burning under them, until
he gave them permission to retire. A plucky man
can rob a whole passenger train by himself; and the
half of a brave man can hold up a stagecoach and
strip its occupants.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then perhaps the remedy for lynchings comes to
this: station a brave man in each affected community
<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>to encourage, support, and bring to light the deep
disapproval of lynching hidden in the secret places
of its heart--for it is there, beyond question. Then
those communities will find something better to
imitate--of course, being human, they must imitate
something. Where shall these brave men be found?
That is indeed a difficulty; there are not three
hundred of them in the earth. If merely <em>physically</em>
brave men would do, then it were easy; they could
be furnished by the cargo. When Hobson called for
seven volunteers to go with him to what promised to
be certain death, four thousand men responded--the
whole fleet, in fact. Because <em>all the world would
approve</em>. They knew that; but if Hobson’s project
had been charged with the scoffs and jeers of the
friends and associates, whose good opinion and
approval the sailors valued, he could not have got
his seven.</p>

<p class='c001'>No, upon reflection, the scheme will not work.
There are not enough morally brave men in stock.
We are out of moral-courage material; we are in a
condition of profound poverty. We have those two
sheriffs down South who--but never mind, it is not
enough to go around; they have to stay and take
care of their own communities.</p>

<p class='c001'>But if we only <em>could</em> have three or four more
sheriffs of that great breed! Would it help? I
think so. For we are all imitators: other brave
sheriffs would follow; to be a dauntless sheriff
would come to be recognized as the correct and only
thing, and the dreaded disapproval would fall to the
share of the other kind; courage in this office would
<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>become custom, the absence of it a dishonor, just
as courage presently replaces the timidity of the
new soldier; then the mobs and the lynchings would
disappear, and----</p>

<p class='c001'>However. It can never be done without some
starters, and where are we to get the starters?
Advertise? Very well, then, let us advertise.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the meantime, there is another plan. Let us
import American missionaries from China, and send
them into the lynching field. With 1,511 of them
out there converting two Chinamen apiece per annum
against an uphill birth rate of 33,000 pagans per day,<a id='r9' /><a href='#f9' class='c022'><sup>[9]</sup></a>
it will take upward of a million years to make the
conversions balance the output and bring the Christianizing
of the country in sight to the naked eye;
therefore, if we can offer our missionaries as rich a
field at home at lighter expense and quite satisfactory
in the matter of danger, why shouldn’t they
find it fair and right to come back and give us a
trial? The Chinese are universally conceded to be
excellent people, honest, honorable, industrious,
trustworthy, kind-hearted, and all that--leave them
alone, they are plenty good enough just as they are;
and besides, almost every convert runs a risk of
catching our civilization. We ought to be careful.
We ought to think twice before we encourage a risk
like that; for, <em>once civilized, China can never be
<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>uncivilized again</em>. We have not been thinking of
that. Very well, we ought to think of it now. Our
missionaries will find that we have a field for them--and
not only for the 1,511, but for 15,011. Let them
look at the following telegram and see if they have
anything in China that is more appetizing. It is
from Texas:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The negro was taken to a tree and swung in the air. Wood and
fodder were piled beneath his body and a hot fire was made.
<em>Then it was suggested that the man ought not to die too quickly,
and he was let down to the ground while a party went to Dexter,
about two miles distant, to procure coal oil.</em> This was thrown on
the flames and the work completed.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>We implore them to come back and help us in our
need. Patriotism imposes this duty on them. Our
country is worse off than China; they are our countrymen,
their motherland supplicates their aid in
this her hour of deep distress. They are competent;
our people are not. They are used to scoffs, sneers,
revilings, danger; our people are not. They have
the martyr spirit; nothing but the martyr spirit
can brave a lynching mob, and cow it and scatter it.
They can save their country, we beseech them to
come home and do it. We ask them to read that
telegram again, and yet again, and picture the scene
in their minds, and soberly ponder it; then multiply
it by 115, add 88; place the 203 in a row, allowing
600 feet of space for each human torch, so that there
may be viewing room around it for 5,000 Christian
American men, women, and children, youths and
maidens; make it night, for grim effect; have the
show in a gradually rising plain, and let the course
<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>of the stakes be uphill; the eye can then take
in the whole line of twenty-four miles of blood-and-flesh
bonfires unbroken, whereas if it occupied level
ground the ends of the line would bend down and
be hidden from view by the curvature of the earth.
All being ready, now, and the darkness opaque, the
stillness impressive--for there should be no sound
but the soft moaning of the night wind and the
muffled sobbing of the sacrifices--let all the far
stretch of kerosened pyres be touched off simultaneously
and the glare and the shrieks and the
agonies burst heavenward to the Throne.</p>

<p class='c001'>There are more than a million persons present;
the light from the fires flushes into vague outline
against the night the spires of five thousand churches.
O kind missionary, O compassionate missionary,
leave China! come home and convert these Christians!</p>

<p class='c001'>I believe that if anything can stop this epidemic
of bloody insanities it is martial personalities that
can face mobs without flinching; and as such personalities
are developed only by familiarity with
danger and by the training and seasoning which
come of resisting it, the likeliest place to find them
must be among the missionaries who have been under
tuition in China during the past year or two. We
have abundance of work for them, and for hundreds
and thousands more, and the field is daily growing
and spreading. Shall we find them? We can try.
In 75,000,000 there must be other Merrills and
Beloats; and it is the law of our make that each
example shall wake up drowsing chevaliers of the
same great knighthood and bring them to the front.</p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f7'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r7'>7</a>. Sheriff of Carroll County, Georgia.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f8'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r8'>8</a>. Sheriff, Princeton, Indiana. By that formidable power which
lies in an established reputation for cold pluck they faced lynching
mobs and securely held the field against them.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f9'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r9'>9</a>. These figures are not fanciful; all of them are genuine and
authentic. They are from official missionary records in China.
See Doctor Morrison’s book on his pedestrian journey across China;
he quotes them and gives his authorities. For several years he has
been the London <cite>Times’s</cite> representative in Peking, and was there
through the siege.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>TO THE PERSON SITTING IN DARKNESS <br /> <span class='small'>(<cite>North American Review</cite>, 1901)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='c011'>See introduction to this volume for some account
of this and the following article.</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Christmas will dawn in the United States over a people full of
hope and aspiration and good cheer. Such a condition means
contentment and happiness. The carping grumbler who may
here and there go forth will find few to listen to him. The
majority will wonder what is the matter with him and pass
on.--New York <cite>Tribune</cite>, on Christmas Eve.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>From the <cite>Sun</cite>, of New York:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The purpose of this article is not to describe the terrible
offenses against humanity committed in the name of Politics
in some of the most notorious East Side districts. <em>They could
not be described, even verbally.</em> But it is the intention to let the
great mass of more or less careless citizens of this beautiful
metropolis of the New World get some conception of the havoc
and ruin wrought to man, woman, and child in the most densely
populated and least-known section of the city. Name, date, and
place can be supplied to those of little faith--or to any man who
feels himself aggrieved. It is a plain statement of record and
observation, written without license and without garnish.</p>

<p class='c001'>Imagine, if you can, a section of the city territory completely
dominated by one man, without whose permission neither legitimate
nor illegitimate business can be conducted; <em>where illegitimate
business is encouraged and legitimate business discouraged</em>;
where the respectable residents have to fasten their doors and
windows summer nights and sit in their rooms with asphyxiating
air and 100-degree temperature, rather than try to catch the
faint whiff of breeze in their natural breathing places, the stoops
of their homes; <em>where naked women dance by night in the streets,
and unsexed men prowl like vultures through the darkness on
“business”</em> not only permitted but encouraged by the police;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span><em>where the education of infants begins with the knowledge of prostitution</em>
and the training of little girls is training in the arts of
Phryne; where <em>American</em> girls brought up with the refinements
of <em>American</em> homes are imported from small towns up-state,
Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New Jersey, and kept as
virtually prisoners as if they were locked up behind jail bars
until they have lost all semblance of womanhood; <em>where small
boys are taught to solicit for the women of disorderly houses</em>; where
there is an organized society of young men <em>whose sole business
in life is to corrupt young girls and turn them over to bawdy houses</em>;
where men walking with their wives along the street are openly
insulted; <em>where children that have adult diseases are the chief
patrons of the hospitals and dispensaries</em>; where it is the rule,
rather than the exception, that <em>murder, rape, robbery, and theft
go unpunished</em>--in short where the Premium of the most awful
forms of Vice is the Profit of the politicians.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>The following news from China appeared in the
<cite>Sun</cite>, of New York, on Christmas Eve. The italics
are mine:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The Rev. Mr. Ament, of the American Board of Foreign
Missions, has returned from a trip which he made for the purpose
of collecting indemnities for damages done by Boxers.
<em>Everywhere he went he compelled the Chinese to pay.</em> He says
that all his native Christians are now provided for. He had
700 of them under his charge, and 300 were killed. He has
<em>collected 300 taels for each</em> of these murders, and has <em>compelled
full payment for all the property belonging to Christians</em> that was
destroyed. He also assessed <em>fines</em> amounting to <span class='fss'>THIRTEEN
TIMES</span> the amount of the indemnity. <em>This money will be used
for the propagation of the Gospel.</em></p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Ament declares that the compensation he has collected
is <em>moderate</em> when compared with the amount secured by the
Catholics, who demand, in addition to money, <em>head for head</em>.
They collect 500 taels for each murder of a Catholic. In the
Wenchiu country, 680 Catholics were killed, and for this the
European Catholics here demand 750,000 strings of cash and
680 <em>heads</em>.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the course of a conversation, Mr. Ament referred to the
attitude of the missionaries toward the Chinese. He said:</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>“I deny emphatically that the missionaries are <em>vindictive</em>, that
they <em>generally</em> looted, or that they have done anything <em>since</em>
the siege that <em>the circumstances did not demand</em>. I criticize the
Americans. <em>The soft hand of the Americans is not as good as
the mailed fist of the Germans.</em> If you deal with the Chinese
with a soft hand they will take advantage of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>“The statement that the French government will return the
loot taken by the French soldiers is the source of the greatest
amusement here. The French soldiers were more systematic
looters than the Germans, and it is a fact that to-day <em>Catholic
Christians</em>, carrying French flags and armed with modern guns,
<em>are looting villages</em> in the Province of Chili.”</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>By happy luck, we get all these glad tidings on
Christmas Eve--just in time enable us to celebrate
the day with proper gayety and enthusiasm. Our
spirits soar, and we find we can even make jokes:
Taels, I win, Heads you lose.</p>

<p class='c001'>Our Reverend Ament is the right man in the right
place. What we want of our missionaries out there
is, not that they shall merely represent in their acts
and persons the grace and gentleness and charity
and loving-kindness of our religion, but that they
shall also represent the American spirit. The oldest
Americans are the Pawnees. Macallum’s History says:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>When a white Boxer kills a Pawnee and destroys his property,
the other Pawnees do not trouble to seek <em>him</em> out, they kill any
white person that comes along; also, they make some white
village pay deceased’s heirs the full cash value of deceased,
together with full cash value of the property destroyed; they
also make the village pay, in addition, <em>thirteen times</em> the value
of that property into a fund for the dissemination of the Pawnee
religion, which they regard as the best of all religions for the
softening and humanizing of the heart of man. It is their idea
that it is only fair and right that the innocent should be made
to suffer for the guilty, and that it is better that ninety and nine
innocent should suffer than that one guilty person should escape.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>Our Reverend Ament is justifiably jealous of those
enterprising Catholics, who not only get big money
for each lost convert, but get “head for head”
besides. But he should soothe himself with the
reflections that the entirety of their exactions are
for their own pockets, whereas he, less selfishly,
devotes only 300 taels per head to that service, and
gives the whole vast thirteen repetitions of the
property-indemnity to the service of propagating
the Gospel. His magnanimity has won him the
approval of his nation, and will get him a monument.
Let him be content with these rewards. We all
hold him dear for manfully defending his fellow
missionaries from exaggerated charges which were
beginning to distress us, but which his testimony
has so considerably modified that we can now contemplate
them without noticeable pain. For now
we know that, even before the siege, the missionaries
were not “generally” out looting, and that, “since
the siege,” they have acted quite handsomely,
except when “circumstances” crowded them. I
am arranging for the monument. Subscriptions for
it can be sent to the American Board; designs for
it can be sent to me. Designs must allegorically
set forth the Thirteen Reduplications of the Indemnity,
and the Object for which they were exacted;
as Ornaments, the designs must exhibit 680 Heads,
so disposed as to give a pleasing and pretty effect;
for the Catholics have done nicely, and are entitled
to notice in the monument. Mottoes may be suggested,
if any shall be discovered that will satisfactorily
cover the ground.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>Mr. Ament’s financial feat of squeezing a thirteenfold
indemnity out of the pauper peasants to square
other people’s offenses, thus condemning them and
their women and innocent little children to inevitable
starvation and lingering death, in order that the
blood money so acquired might be “<em>used for the
propagation of the Gospel</em>,” does not flutter my
serenity; although the act and the words, taken
together, concrete a blasphemy so hideous and so
colossal that, without doubt, its mate is not findable
in the history of this or of any other age. Yet, if a
layman had done that thing and justified it with
those words, I should have shuddered, I know. Or,
if I had done the thing and said the words myself--However,
the thought is unthinkable, irreverent as
some imperfectly informed people think me. Sometimes
an ordained minister sets out to be blasphemous.
When this happens, the layman is out of the
running; he stands no chance.</p>

<p class='c001'>We have Mr. Ament’s impassioned assurance
that the missionaries are not “vindictive.” Let
us hope and pray that they will never become
so, but will remain in the almost morbidly fair
and just and gentle temper which is affording
so much satisfaction to their brother and champion
to-day.</p>

<p class='c001'>The following is from the New York <cite>Tribune</cite> of
Christmas Eve. It comes from that journal’s Tokyo
correspondent. It has a strange and impudent
sound, but the Japanese are but partially civilized
as yet. When they become wholly civilized they
will not talk so:</p>

<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span></div>
<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The missionary question, of course, occupies a foremost place
in the discussion. It is now felt as essential that the Western
Powers take cognizance of the sentiment here, that religious
invasions of Oriental countries by powerful Western organizations
are tantamount to filibustering expeditions, and should
not only be discountenanced, but that stern measures should
be adopted for their suppression. The feeling here is that the
missionary organizations constitute a constant menace to peaceful
international relations.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'><i>Shall we?</i> That is, shall we go on conferring our
Civilization upon the peoples that sit in darkness,
or shall we give those poor things a rest? Shall we
bang right ahead in our old-time, loud, pious way,
and commit the new century to the game; or shall
we sober up and sit down and think it over first?
Would it not be prudent to get our Civilization
tools together, and see how much stock is left on
hand in the way of Glass Beads and Theology, and
Maxim Guns and Hymn Books, and Trade Gin and
Torches of Progress and Enlightenment (patent
adjustable ones, good to fire villages with, upon
occasion), and balance the books, and arrive at the
profit and loss, so that we may intelligently decide
whether to continue the business or sell out the
property and start a new Civilization Scheme on the
proceeds?</p>

<p class='c001'>Extending the Blessings of Civilization to our
Brother who Sits in Darkness has been a good trade
and has paid well, on the whole; and there is money
in it yet, if carefully worked--but not enough, in
my judgment, to make any considerable risk advisable.
The People that Sit in Darkness are getting
to be too scarce--too scarce and too shy. And such
<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>darkness as is now left is really of but an indifferent
quality, and not dark enough for the game. The
most of those People that Sit in Darkness have been
furnished with more light than was good for them or
profitable for us. We have been injudicious.</p>

<p class='c001'>The Blessings-of-Civilization Trust, wisely and
cautiously administered, is a Daisy. There is more
money in it, more territory, more sovereignty, and
other kinds of emolument, than there is in any other
game that is played. But Christendom has been
playing it badly of late years, and must certainly
suffer by it, in my opinion. She has been so eager
to get every stake that appeared on the green cloth,
that the People who Sit in Darkness have noticed
it--they have noticed it, and have begun to show
alarm. They have become suspicious of the Blessings
of Civilization. More--they have begun to
examine them. This is not well. The Blessings of
Civilization are all right, and a good commercial
property; there could not be a better, in a dim light.
In the right kind of a light, and at a proper distance,
with the goods a little out of focus, they furnish
this desirable exhibit to the Gentlemen who Sit in
Darkness:</p>

<table class='table1' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='50%' />
<col width='50%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Love</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Law and Order</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Justice</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Liberty</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Gentleness</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Equality</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Christianity</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Honorable Dealing</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Protection to the Weak</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Mercy</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c028'><span class='sc'>Temperance</span>,</td>
    <td class='c029'><span class='sc'>Education</span>,</td>
  </tr>
  <tr><td class='c030' colspan='2'>--and so on.</td></tr>
</table>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>There. Is it good? Sir, it is pie. It will bring
into camp any idiot that sits in darkness anywhere.
But not if we adulterate it. It is proper to be
emphatic upon that point. This brand is strictly
for Export--apparently. <em>Apparently.</em> Privately
and confidentially, it is nothing of the kind. Privately
and confidentially, it is merely an outside cover,
gay and pretty and attractive, displaying the special
patterns of our Civilization which we reserve for
Home Consumption, while <em>inside</em> the bale is the
Actual Thing that the Customer Sitting in Darkness
buys with his blood and tears and land and liberty.
That Actual Thing is, indeed, Civilization, but it is
only for Export. Is there a difference between the
two brands? In some of the details, yes.</p>

<p class='c001'>We all know that the Business is being ruined.
The reason is not far to seek. It is because our Mr.
McKinley, and Mr. Chamberlain, and the Kaiser,
and the Tsar and the French have been exporting the
Actual Thing <em>with the outside cover left off</em>. This is
bad for the Game. It shows that these new players
of it are not sufficiently acquainted with it.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is a distress to look on and note the mismoves,
they are so strange and so awkward. Mr. Chamberlain
manufactures a war out of materials so inadequate
and so fanciful that they make the boxes
grieve and the gallery laugh, and he tries hard to
persuade himself that it isn’t purely a private raid
for cash, but has a sort of dim, vague respectability
about it somewhere, if he could only find the spot;
and that, by and by, he can scour the flag clean
again after he has finished dragging it through the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>mud, and make it shine and flash in the vault of
heaven once more as it had shone and flashed there
a thousand years in the world’s respect until he laid
his unfaithful hand upon it. It is bad play--bad.
For it exposes the Actual Thing to Them that Sit
in Darkness, and they say: “What! Christian
against Christian? And only for money? Is <em>this</em>
a case of magnanimity, forbearance, love, gentleness,
mercy, protection of the weak--this strange and
overshowy onslaught of an elephant upon a nest of
field mice, on the pretext that the mice had squeaked
an insolence at him--conduct which “no self-respecting
government could allow to pass unavenged”?
as Mr. Chamberlain said. Was that a
good pretext in a small case, when it had not been
a good pretext in a large one?--for only recently
Russia had affronted the elephant three times and
survived alive and unsmitten. Is this Civilization
and Progress? Is it something better than we already
possess? These harryings and burnings and desert-makings
in the Transvaal--is this an improvement
on our darkness? Is it, perhaps, possible that there
are two kinds of Civilization--one for home consumption
and one for the heathen market?”</p>

<p class='c001'>Then They that Sit in Darkness are troubled, and
shake their heads; and they read this extract from
a letter of a British private, recounting his exploits
in one of Methuen’s victories, some days before
the affair of Magersfontein, and they are troubled
again:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>We tore up the hill and into the intrenchments, and the Boers
saw we had them; so they dropped their guns and went down
<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>on their knees and put up their hands clasped, and begged for
mercy. And we gave it them--<em>with the long spoon</em>.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>The long spoon is the bayonet. See <cite>Lloyd’s
Weekly</cite>, London, of those days. The same number--and
the same column--contained some quite unconscious
satire in the form of shocked and bitter
upbraidings of the Boers for their brutalities and
inhumanities!</p>

<p class='c001'>Next, to our heavy damage, the Kaiser went to
playing the game without first mastering it. He
lost a couple of missionaries in a riot in Shantung,
and in his account he made an overcharge for them.
China had to pay a hundred thousand dollars apiece
for them, in money; twelve miles of territory, containing
several millions of inhabitants and worth
twenty million dollars; and to build a monument,
and also a Christian church; whereas the people of
China could have been depended upon to remember
the missionaries without the help of these expensive
memorials. This was all bad play. Bad, because
it would not, and could not, and will not now or
ever, deceive the Person Sitting in Darkness. He
knows that it was an overcharge. He knows that
a missionary is like any other man: he is worth
merely what you can supply his place for, and no
more. He is useful, but so is a doctor, so is a sheriff,
so is an editor; but a just Emperor does not charge
war prices for such. A diligent, intelligent, but
obscure missionary, and a diligent, intelligent country
editor are worth much, and we know it; but
they are not worth the earth. We esteem such an
editor, and we are sorry to see him go; but, when he
<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>goes, we should consider twelve miles of territory,
and a church, and a fortune, overcompensation for
his loss. I mean, if he was a Chinese editor, and we
had to settle for him. It is no proper figure for an
editor or a missionary; one can get shop-worn kings
for less. It was bad play on the Kaiser’s part. It
got this property, true; but it <em>produced the Chinese
revolt</em>, the indignant uprising of China’s traduced
patriots, the Boxers. The results have been expensive
to Germany, and to the other Disseminators of
Progress and the Blessings of Civilization.</p>

<p class='c001'>The <a id='corr260.12'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='Kasier’s'>Kaiser’s</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_260.12'><ins class='correction' title='Kasier’s'>Kaiser’s</ins></a></span> claim was paid, yet it was bad play,
for it could not fail to have an evil effect upon
Persons Sitting in Darkness in China. They would
muse upon the event, and be likely to say: “Civilization
is gracious and beautiful, for such is its reputation;
but can we afford it? There are rich Chinamen,
perhaps they can afford it; but this tax is not laid
upon them, it is laid upon the peasants of Shantung;
it is they that must pay this mighty sum, and their
wages are but four cents a day. Is this a better
civilization than ours, and holier and higher and
nobler? Is not this rapacity? Is not this extortion?
Would Germany charge America two hundred thousand
dollars for two missionaries, and shake the
mailed fist in her face, and send warships, and send
soldiers, and say: ‘Seize twelve miles of territory,
worth twenty millions of dollars, as additional pay
for the missionaries; and make those peasants build
a monument to the missionaries, and a costly
Christian church to remember them by?’ And later
would Germany say to her soldiers: ‘March through
<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>America and slay, <em>giving no quarter</em>; make the German
face there, as has been our Hun-face here, a terror
for a thousand years; march through the Great
Republic and slay, slay, slay, carving a road for
our offended religion through its heart and bowels?’
Would Germany do like this to America, to England,
to France, to Russia? Or only to China, the helpless--imitating
the elephant’s assault upon the field
mice? Had we better invest in this Civilization--this
Civilization which called Napoleon a buccaneer
for carrying off Venice’s bronze horses, but which
steals our ancient astronomical instruments from
our walls, and goes looting like common bandits--that
is, all the alien soldiers except America’s; and
(Americans again excepted) storms frightened villages
and cables the result to glad journals at home
every day: ‘Chinese losses, 450 killed; ours, <em>one
officer and two men wounded</em>. Shall proceed against
neighboring village to-morrow, where a <em>massacre</em> is
reported.’ Can we afford Civilization?”</p>

<p class='c001'>And next Russia must go and play the game
injudiciously. She affronts England once or twice--with
the Person Sitting in Darkness observing
and noting; by moral assistance of France and Germany,
she robs Japan of her hard-earned spoil, all
swimming in Chinese blood--Port Arthur--with the
Person again observing and noting; then she seizes
Manchuria, raids its villages, and chokes its great
river with the swollen corpses of countless massacred
peasants--that astonished Person still observing and
noting. And perhaps he is saying to himself: “It
is yet <em>another</em> Civilized Power, with its banner of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>Prince of Peace in one hand and its loot basket and
its butcher knife in the other. Is there no salvation
for us but to adopt Civilization and lift ourselves
down to its level?”</p>

<p class='c001'>And by and by comes America, and our Master of
the Game plays it badly--plays it as Mr. Chamberlain
was playing it in South Africa. It was a mistake
to do that; also, it was one which was quite unlooked
for in a Master who was playing it so well in Cuba.
In Cuba, he was playing the usual and regular
<em>American</em> game, and it was winning, for there is
no way to beat it. The Master, contemplating
Cuba, said: “Here is an oppressed and friendless
little nation which is willing to fight to be free;
we go partners, and put up the strength of seventy
million sympathizers and the resources of the United
States: play!” Nothing but Europe combined
could call that hand: and Europe cannot combine
on anything. There, in Cuba, he was following our
great traditions in a way which made us very proud
of him, and proud of the deep dissatisfaction which
his play was provoking in continental Europe. Moved
by a high inspiration, he threw out those stirring
words which proclaimed that forcible annexation
would be “criminal aggression”; and in that utterance
fired another “shot heard round the world.”
The memory of that fine saying will be outlived by
the remembrance of no act of his but one--that he
forgot it within the twelvemonth, and its honorable
gospel along with it.</p>

<p class='c001'>For, presently, came the Philippine temptation.
It was strong; it was too strong, and he made that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>bad mistake: he played the European game, the
Chamberlain game. It was a pity; it was a great
pity, that error; that one grievous error, that irrevocable
error. For it was the very place and time
to play the American game again. And at no cost.
Rich winnings to be gathered in, too; rich and
permanent; indestructible; a fortune transmissible
forever to the children of the flag. Not land, not
money, not dominion--no, something worth many
times more than that dross: our share, the spectacle
of a nation of long harassed and persecuted slaves
set free through our influence; our posterity’s share,
the golden memory of that fair deed. The game
was in our hands. If it had been played according
to the American rules, Dewey would have sailed
away from Manila as soon as he had destroyed the
Spanish fleet--after putting up a sign on shore
guaranteeing foreign property and life against damage
by the Filipinos, and warning the Powers that
interference with the emancipated patriots would be
regarded as an act unfriendly to the United States.
The Powers cannot combine, in even a bad cause,
and the sign would not have been molested.</p>

<p class='c001'>Dewey could have gone about his affairs elsewhere,
and left the competent Filipino army to starve out
the little Spanish garrison and send it home, and the
Filipino citizens to set up the form of government
they might prefer, and deal with the friars and their
doubtful acquisitions according to Filipino ideas of
fairness and justice--ideas which have since been
tested and found to be of as high an order as any
that prevail in Europe or America.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>But we played the Chamberlain game, and lost
the chance to add another Cuba and another honorable
deed to our good record.</p>

<p class='c001'>The more we examine the mistake, the more clearly
we perceive that it is going to be bad for the Business.
The Person Sitting in Darkness is almost sure to say:
“There is something curious about this--curious and
unaccountable. There must be two Americas: one
that sets the captive free, and one that takes a once-captive’s
new freedom away from him, and picks a
quarrel with him with nothing to found it on; then
kills him to get his land.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The truth is, the Person Sitting in Darkness <em>is</em>
saying things like that; and for the sake of the
Business we must persuade him to look at the
Philippine matter in another and healthier way. We
must arrange his opinions for him. I believe it can
be done; for Mr. Chamberlain has arranged England’s
opinion of the South African matter, and done
it most cleverly and successfully. He presented the
facts--some of the facts--and showed those confiding
people what the facts meant. He did it statistically,
which is a good way. He used the formula:
“Twice 2 are 14, and 2 from 9 leaves 35.” Figures
are effective; figures will convince the elect.</p>

<p class='c001'>Now, my plan is a still bolder one than Mr.
Chamberlain’s, though apparently a copy of it. Let
us be franker than Mr. Chamberlain; let us audaciously
present the whole of the facts, shirking none,
then explain them according to Mr. Chamberlain’s
formula. This daring truthfulness will astonish and
dazzle the Person Sitting in Darkness, and he will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>take the Explanation down before his mental vision
has had time to get back into focus. Let us say
to him:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Our case is simple. On the 1st of May, Dewey
destroyed the Spanish fleet. This left the Archipelago
in the hands of its proper and rightful owners,
the Filipino nation. Their army numbered 30,000
men, and they were competent to whip out or starve
out the little Spanish garrison; then the people
could set up a government of their own devising.
Our traditions required that Dewey should now set
up his warning sign, and go away. But the Master
of the Game happened to think of another plan--the
European plan. He acted upon it. This was,
to send out an army--ostensibly to help the native
patriots put the finishing touch upon their long and
plucky struggle for independence, but really to take
their land away from them and keep it. That is,
in the interest of Progress and Civilization. The
plan developed, stage by stage, and quite satisfactorily.
We entered into a military alliance with the
trusting Filipinos, and they hemmed in Manila on
the land side, and by their valuable help the place,
with its garrison of 8,000 or 10,000 Spaniards, was
captured--a thing which we could not have accomplished
unaided at that time. We got their help by--by
ingenuity. We knew they were fighting for
their independence, and that they had been at it
for two years. We knew they supposed that we
also were fighting in their worthy cause--just as we had
helped the Cubans fight for Cuban independence--and
we allowed them to go on thinking so. <em>Until
<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>Manila was ours and we could get along without them.</em>
Then we showed our hand. Of course, they were
surprised--that was natural; surprised and disappointed;
disappointed and grieved. To them it
looked un-American; uncharacteristic; foreign to
our established traditions. And this was natural,
too; for we were only playing the American Game
in public--in private it was the European. It was
neatly done, very neatly, and it bewildered them.
They could not understand it; for we had been so
friendly--so affectionate, even--with those simple-minded
patriots! We, our own selves, had brought
back out of exile their leader, their hero, their hope,
their Washington--Aguinaldo; brought him in a
warship, in high honor, under the sacred shelter and
hospitality of the flag; brought him back and restored
him to his people, and got their moving and eloquent
gratitude for it. Yes, we had been so friendly to
them, and had heartened them up in so many ways!
We had lent them guns and ammunition; advised
with them; exchanged pleasant courtesies with them;
placed our sick and wounded in their kindly care;
intrusted our Spanish prisoners to their humane and
honest hands; fought shoulder to shoulder with
them against “the common enemy” (our own
phrase); praised their courage, praised their gallantry,
praised their mercifulness, praised their fine
and honorable conduct; borrowed their trenches,
borrowed strong positions which they had previously
captured from the Spaniards; petted them, lied to
them--officially proclaiming that our land and naval
forces came to give them their freedom and displace
<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>the bad Spanish Government--fooled them, used
them until we needed them no longer; then derided
the sucked orange and threw it away. We kept the
positions which we had beguiled them of; by and
by, we moved a force forward and overlapped patriot
ground--a clever thought, for we needed trouble,
and this would produce it. A Filipino soldier, crossing
the ground, where no one had a right to forbid
him, was shot by our sentry. The badgered patriots
resented this with arms, without waiting to know
whether Aguinaldo, who was absent, would approve
or not. Aguinaldo did not approve; but that availed
nothing. What we wanted, in the interest of Progress
and Civilization, was the Archipelago, unencumbered
by patriots struggling for independence; and
War was what we needed. We clinched our opportunity.
It is Mr. Chamberlain’s case over again--at
least in its motive and intention; and we played
the game as adroitly as he played it himself.”</p>

<p class='c001'>At this point in our frank statement of fact to the
Person Sitting in Darkness, we should throw in a
little trade taffy about the Blessings of Civilization--for
a change, and for the refreshment of his spirit--then
go on with our tale:</p>

<p class='c001'>“We and the patriots having captured Manila,
Spain’s ownership of the Archipelago and her sovereignty
over it were at an end--obliterated--annihilated--not
a rag or shred of either remaining
behind. It was then that we conceived the divinely
humorous idea of <em>buying</em> both of these specters from
Spain! [It is quite safe to confess this to the Person
Sitting in Darkness, since neither he nor any other
<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>sane person will believe it.] In buying those ghosts
for twenty millions, we also contracted to take care
of the friars and their accumulations. I think we
also agreed to propagate leprosy and smallpox, but as
to this there is doubt. But it is not important; persons
afflicted with the friars do not mind other diseases.</p>

<p class='c001'>“With our Treaty ratified, Manila subdued, and our
Ghosts secured, we had no further use for Aguinaldo
and the owners of the Archipelago. We forced a
war, and we have been hunting America’s guest and
ally through the woods and swamps ever since.”</p>

<p class='c001'>At this point in the tale, it will be well to boast a
little of our war work and our <a id='corr268.13'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='heriosms'>heroisms</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_268.13'><ins class='correction' title='heriosms'>heroisms</ins></a></span> in the field,
so as to make our performance look as fine as
England’s in South Africa; but I believe it will not
be best to emphasize this too much. We must be
cautious. Of course, we must read the war telegrams
to the Person, in order to keep up our frankness; but
we can throw an air of humorousness over them, and
that will modify their grim eloquence a little, and
their rather indiscret exhibitions of gory exultation.
Before reading to him the following display heads
of the dispatches of November 18, 1900, it will be
well to practice on them in private first, so as to get
the right tang of lightness and gayety into them:</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>“ADMINISTRATION WEARY OF</div>
    <div>PROTRACTED HOSTILITIES!”</div>
    <div class='c000'>“REAL WAR AHEAD FOR FILIPINO</div>
    <div>REBELS!”<a id='r10' /><a href='#f10' class='c022'><sup>[10]</sup></a></div>
    <div class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>“WILL SHOW NO MERCY!”</div>
    <div>“KITCHENER’S PLAN ADOPTED!”</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Kitchener knows how to handle disagreeable
people who are fighting for their homes and their
liberties, and we must let on that we are merely
imitating Kitchener, and have no national interest
in the matter, further than to get ourselves admired
by the Great Family of Nations, in which august
company our Master of the Game has bought a place
for us in the back row.</p>

<p class='c001'>Of course, we must not venture to ignore our
General MacArthur’s reports--oh, why do they keep
on printing those embarrassing things?--we must
drop them trippingly from the tongue and take the
chances:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>During the last ten months our losses have been 268 killed
and 750 wounded; Filipino loss, <em>three thousand two hundred and
twenty-seven killed</em>, and 694 wounded.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>We must stand ready to grab the Person Sitting
in Darkness, for he will swoon away at this confession,
saying: “Good God! those ‘niggers’ spare their
wounded, and the Americans massacre theirs!”</p>

<p class='c001'>We must bring him to, and coax him and coddle
him, and assure him that the ways of Providence are
best, and that it would not become us to find fault
with them; and then, to show him that we are only
imitators, not originators, we must read the following
passage from the letter of an American soldier lad in
the Philippines to his mother, published in <cite>Public
Opinion</cite>, of Decorah, Iowa, describing the finish of
a victorious battle:</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>“<span class='sc'>We never left one alive. If one was
wounded, we would run our bayonets through
him.</span>”</p>

<p class='c001'>Having now laid all the historical facts before the
Person Sitting in Darkness, we should bring him to
again, and explain them to him. We should say to
him:</p>

<p class='c001'>“They look doubtful, but in reality they are not.
There have been lies; yes, but they were told in a
good cause. We have been treacherous; but that
was only in order that real good might come out of
apparent evil. True, we have crushed a deceived
and confiding people; we have turned against the
weak and the friendless who trusted us; we have
stamped out a just and intelligent and well-ordered
republic; we have stabbed an ally in the back and
slapped the face of a guest; we have bought a
Shadow from an enemy that hadn’t it to sell; we
have robbed a trusting friend of his land and his
liberty; we have invited our clean young men to
shoulder a discredited musket and do bandits’ work
under a flag which bandits have been accustomed to
fear, not to follow; we have debauched America’s
honor and blackened her face before the world; but
each detail was for the best. We know this. The
Head of every State and Sovereignty in Christendom
and 90 per cent of every legislative body in Christendom,
including our Congress and our fifty state
legislatures, are members not only of the church,
but also of the Blessings-of-Civilization Trust. This
world-girdling accumulation of trained morals, high
principles, and justice cannot do an unright thing,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>an unfair thing, an ungenerous thing, an unclean
thing. It knows what it is about. Give yourself
no uneasiness; it is all right.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Now then, that will convince the Person. You will
see. It will restore the Business. Also, it will elect
the Master of the Game to the vacant place in the
Trinity of our national gods; and there on their
high thrones the Three will sit, age after age, in the
people’s sight, each bearing the Emblem of his
service: Washington, the Sword of the Liberator;
Lincoln, the Slave’s Broken Chains; the Master,
the Chains Repaired.</p>

<p class='c001'>It will give the Business a splendid new start.
You will see.</p>

<p class='c001'>Everything is prosperous, now; everything is just
as we should wish it. We have got the Archipelago,
and we shall never give it up. Also, we have every
reason to hope that we shall have an opportunity
before very long to slip out of our congressional
contract with Cuba and give her something better
in the place of it. It is a rich country, and many
of us are already beginning to see that the contract
was a sentimental mistake. But now--right now--is
the best time to do some profitable rehabilitating
work--work that will set us up and make us comfortable,
and discourage gossip. We cannot conceal
from ourselves that, privately, we are a little troubled
about our uniform. It is one of our prides; it is
acquainted with honor; it is familiar with great deeds
and noble; we love it, we revere it; and so this
errand it is on makes us uneasy. And our flag--another
pride of ours, our chiefest! We have worshiped
<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>it so; and when we have seen it in far lands--glimpsing
it unexpectedly in that strange sky, waving
its welcome and benediction to us--we have
caught our breaths, and uncovered our heads, and
couldn’t speak, for a moment, for the thought of
what it was to us and the great ideals it stood for.
Indeed, we <em>must</em> do something about these things; it
is easily managed. We can have a special one--our
states do it: we can have just our usual flag, with
the white stripes painted black and the stars replaced
by the skull and crossbones.</p>

<p class='c001'>And we do not need that Civil Commission out
there. Having no powers, it has to invent them,
and that kind of work cannot be effectively done by
just anybody; an expert is required. Mr. Croker
can be spared. We do not want the United States
represented there, but only the Game.</p>

<p class='c001'>By help of these suggested amendments, Progress
and Civilization in that country can have a boom,
and it will take in the Persons who are Sitting in
Darkness, and we can resume Business at the old
stand.</p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f10'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r10'>10</a>. “Rebels!” Mumble that funny word--don’t let the Person
catch it distinctly.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>TO MY MISSIONARY CRITICS <br /> <span class='small'>(<cite>North American Review</cite>, 1901)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_0_0_4 c014'>I have received many newspaper cuttings; also
letters from several clergymen; also a note from
the Rev. Dr. Judson Smith, Corresponding Secretary
of the American Board of Foreign Missions--all of
a like tenor; all saying, substantially, what is said
in the cutting here copied:</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>AN APOLOGY DUE FROM MR. CLEMENS</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The evidence of the past day or two should induce Mark
Twain to make for the amen corner and formulate a prompt
apology for his scathing attack on the Rev. Dr. Ament, the
veteran Chinese missionary. The assault was based on a Peking
dispatch to the New York <cite>Sun</cite>, which said that Dr. Ament had
collected from the Chinese in various places damages thirteen
times in excess of actual losses. So Mark Twain charged Mr.
Ament with bullyragging, extortion, and things. A Peking
dispatch to the <cite>Sun</cite> yesterday, however, explains that the amount
collected was not thirteen times the damage sustained, but <em>one-third
in excess of the indemnities</em>, and that the blunder was due
to a cable error in transmission. The 1-3d got converted into
13. Yesterday the Rev. Judson Smith, Secretary of the American
Board, received a dispatch from Dr. Ament, calling attention
to the cable blunder, and declaring that all the collections which
he made were <em>approved by the Chinese officials</em>. The fractional
amount that was collected in excess of actual losses, he explains,
is being <em>used for the support of widows and orphans</em>.</p>

<p class='c001'>So collapses completely--and convulsively--Mark Twain’s
sensational and ugly bombardment of a missionary whose
character and services should have exempted him from such an
assault.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>From the charge the underpinning has been knocked out.
To Dr. Ament Mr. Clemens has done an injustice which is gross
but unintentional. If Mark Twain is the man we take him to
be he won’t be long in filing a retraction, plus an apology.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>I have no prejudice against apologies. I trust I
shall never withhold one when it is due; I trust I
shall never even have a disposition to do so. These
letters and newspaper paragraphs are entitled to my
best attention; respect for their writers and for the
humane feeling which has prompted their utterances
requires this of me. It may be barely possible that,
if these requests for an apology had reached me before
the 20th of February, I might have had a sort of
qualified chance to apologize; but on that day
appeared the two little cablegrams referred to in the
newspaper cutting copied above--one from the Rev.
Dr. Smith to the Rev. Dr. Ament, the other from
Dr. Ament to Dr. Smith--and my small chance died
then. In my opinion, these cablegrams ought to have
been suppressed, for it seems clear that they give
Dr. Ament’s case entirely away. Still, that is only
an opinion, and may be a mistake. It will be best
to examine the case from the beginning, by the light
of the documents connected with it.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT A</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>This is a dispatch from Mr. Chamberlain,<a id='r11' /><a href='#f11' class='c022'><sup>[11]</sup></a> chief of
the <cite>Sun’s</cite> correspondence staff in Peking. It appeared
in the <cite>Sun</cite> last Christmas Eve, and in referring to
it hereafter I will call it the “C. E. dispatch” for
short:</p>

<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span></div>
<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The Rev. Mr. Ament, of the American Board of Foreign
Missions, has returned from a trip which he made for the purpose
of collecting indemnities for damages done by Boxers.
Everywhere he went he compelled the Chinese to pay. He says
that all his native Christians are now provided for. He had
seven hundred of them under his charge, and three hundred
were killed. He has collected 300 taels for each of these murders,
and has compelled full payment for all the property belonging
to Christians that was destroyed. He also assessed fines amounting
to thirteen times<a id='r12' /><a href='#f12' class='c022'><sup>[12]</sup></a> the amount of the indemnity. This
money will be used for the propagation of the Gospel.</p>

<p class='c001'>Mr. Ament declares that the compensation he has collected
is moderate when compared with the amount secured by the
Catholics, who demand, in addition to money, head for head.
They collect 500 taels for each murder of a Catholic. In the
Wen-Chiu country 680 Catholics were killed, and for this the
European Catholics here demand 750,000 strings of cash and 680
heads.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the course of a conversation Mr. Ament referred to the
attitude of the missionaries toward the Chinese. He said:</p>

<p class='c001'><a id='corr275.21'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='I'>“I</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_275.21'><ins class='correction' title='I'>“I</ins></a></span> deny emphatically that the missionaries are vindictive, that
they generally looted, or that they have done anything since the
siege that the circumstances did not demand. I criticize the
Americans. The soft hand of the Americans is not as good as
the mailed fist of the Germans. If you deal with the Chinese
with a soft hand they will take advantage of it.”</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>In an article addressed “To the Person Sitting in
Darkness,” published in the <cite>North American Review</cite>
for February, I made some comments upon this C. E.
dispatch.</p>

<p class='c001'>In an Open Letter to me, from the Rev. Dr. Smith,
published in the <cite>Tribune</cite> of February 15th, doubt is
cast upon the authenticity of the dispatch.</p>

<p class='c001'>Up to the 20th of February, this doubt was an
important factor in the case: Dr. Ament’s brief cablegram,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>published on that date, took the importance
all out of it.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the Open Letter, Dr. Smith quotes this passage
from a letter from Dr. Ament, dated November 13th.
The italics are mine:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'><em>This</em> time I proposed to settle affairs <em>without the aid of soldiers or</em>
legations.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>This cannot mean two things, but only one: that,
previously, he <em>had</em> collected by armed force.</p>

<p class='c001'>Also, in the Open Letter, Dr. Smith quotes some
praises of Dr. Ament and the Rev. Mr. Tewksbury,
furnished by the Rev. Dr. Sheffield, and says:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Dr. Sheffield is not accustomed to speak thus of <em>thieves</em>, or
<em>extortioners</em>, or <em>braggarts</em>.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>What can he mean by those vigorous expressions?
Can he mean that the first two would be applicable
to a missionary who should collect from B, with the
“aid of soldiers,” indemnities possibly due by A, and
upon occasion go out looting?</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT B</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Testimony of George Lynch (indorsed as entirely
trustworthy by the <cite>Tribune</cite> and the <cite>Herald</cite>), war
correspondent in the Cuban and South African wars,
and in the march upon Peking for the rescue of the
legations. The italics are mine:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>When the <em>soldiers</em> were prohibited from looting, no such prohibitions
seemed to operate with the <em>missionaries</em>. For instance,
the <em>Rev. Mr. Tewksbury held a great sale of looted goods, which
lasted several days</em>.</p>

<p class='c001'>A day or two after the relief, when looking for a place to sleep
in, I met the Rev. Mr. Ament, of the American Board of Foreign
<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>Missions. <em>He told me</em> he was going to take possession of the
house of a wealthy Chinaman who was an old enemy of his, as
he had interfered much in the past with his missionary labors
in Peking. A couple of days afterwards <em>he did so</em>, and held a
<em>great sale of his enemy’s effects</em>. I bought a sable cloak at it for
$125, and a couple of statues of Buddha. As the stock became
depleted <em>it was replenished by the efforts of his converts, who were
ransacking the houses in the neighborhood</em>.--New York <cite>Herald</cite>,
February 18th.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>It is Dr. Smith, not I, who has suggested that
persons who act in this way are “thieves and
extortioners.”</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT C</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Sir Robert Hart, in the <cite>Fortnightly Review</cite> for
January, 1901. This witness has been for many
years the most prominent and important Englishman
in China, and bears an irreproachable reputation
for moderation, fairness, and truth-speaking. In
closing a description of the revolting scenes which
followed the occupation of Peking, when the Christian
armies (with the proud exception of the American
soldiery, let us be thankful for that) gave themselves
up to a ruthless orgy of robbery and spoliation,
he says (the italics are mine):</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>And even some <em>missionaries</em> took such a <em>leading</em> part in “spoiling
the Egyptians” for the greater glory of God that a bystander
was heard to say: “<em>For a century to come Chinese converts will
consider looting and vengeance Christian <a id='corr277.28'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='virtues:'>virtues.</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_277.28'><ins class='correction' title='virtues:'>virtues.</ins></a></span></em>”</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>It is Dr. Smith, not I, who has suggested that persons
who act in this way are “thieves and extortioners.”
According to Mr. Lynch and Mr. Martin
(another war correspondent), Dr. Ament helped to
spoil several of those Egyptians. Mr. Martin took
<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>a photograph of the scene. It was reproduced in the
<cite>Herald</cite>. I have it.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT D</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>In a brief reply to Dr. Smith’s Open Letter to me,
I said this in the <cite>Tribune</cite>. I am italicizing several
words--for a purpose:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Whenever he (Dr. Smith) can produce from the Rev. Mr.
Ament an assertion that the <cite>Sun’s</cite> character-blasting dispatch
was not authorized <em>by him</em>, and whenever Dr. Smith can buttress
Mr. Ament’s disclaimer with a confession from <em>Mr. Chamberlain</em>,
the head of the Laffan News Service in China, that that dispatch
was a false invention <em>and unauthorized</em>, the case against
Mr. Ament will fall at once to the ground.</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT E</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Brief cablegrams, referred to above, which passed
between Dr. Smith and Dr. Ament, and were published
on February 20th:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Ament, Peking: Reported December 24 your collecting
thirteen times actual losses; using for propagating the Gospel.
Are these statements true? Cable specific answer.</p>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Smith.</span></div>

<p class='c001'>Statement untrue. Collected 1-3 for church expenses, additional
actual damages; now supporting widows and orphans.
Publication thirteen times blunder cable. All collections received
approval Chinese officials, who are urging further settlements
same line.</p>

<div class='c015'><span class='sc'>Ament.</span></div>

</div>

<p class='c001'>Only two questions are asked; “specific” answers
required; no perilous wanderings among the other
details of the unhappy dispatch desired.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT F</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>Letter from Dr. Smith to me, dated March
8th. The italics are mine; they tag inaccuracies of
statement:</p>

<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span></div>
<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>Permit me to call your attention to the marked paragraphs in
the inclosed papers, and to ask you to note their relation to the
two conditions named in your letter to the New York <cite>Tribune</cite>
of February 15th.</p>

<p class='c001'>The first is <em>Dr. Ament’s denial of the truth of the dispatch in
the New York “Sun,”</em> of December 24th, on which your criticisms
of him in the <cite>North American Review</cite> of February were
founded. The second is a correction by the <cite>“Sun’s”</cite> <em>special
correspondent</em> in Peking of the dispatch printed in the <cite>Sun</cite> of
December 24th.</p>

<p class='c001'>Since, as you state in your letter to the <cite>Tribune</cite>, “the case
against Mr. Ament would fall to the ground” <em>if Mr. Ament
denied the truth</em> of the <cite>Sun’s</cite> first dispatch, and <em>if the ‘Sun’s’
news agency</em> in Peking also <em>declared that dispatch false</em>, and these
two conditions <em>have thus been fulfilled</em>, I am sure that upon having
these <em>facts</em> brought to your attention you will gladly withdraw
the criticisms that were <em>founded on a “cable blunder.”</em></p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>I think Dr. Smith ought to read me more carefully;
then he would not make so many mistakes. Within
the narrow space of two paragraphs, totaling eleven
lines, he has scored nine departures from fact out of
a possible 9½. Now, is that parliamentary? I do
not treat him like that. Whenever I quote him, I
am particular not to do him the least wrong, or make
him say anything he did not say.</p>

<p class='c001'>(1) Mr. Ament doesn’t “deny the truth of the
C. E. dispatch”; he merely changes one of its phrases,
without materially changing the meaning, and (immaterially)
corrects a cable blunder (which correction
I accept). He was asked no question about the
other four fifths of the C. E. dispatch. (2) I said
nothing about “special” correspondents; I named
the right and responsible man--Mr. Chamberlain.
The “correction” referred to is a repetition of the
one I have just accepted, which (immaterially)
<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>changes “thirteen times” to “one third” extra tax.
(3) I did not say anything about “the <cite>Sun’s</cite> news
agency”; I said “Chamberlain.” I have every confidence
in Mr. Chamberlain, but I am not personally
acquainted with the others. (4) Once more--Mr.
Ament didn’t “deny the truth” of the C. E.
dispatch, but merely made unimportant emendations
of a couple of its many details. (5) I did not
say “if Mr. Ament denied the truth” of the C. E.
dispatch: I said, if he would assert that the dispatch
was not “authorized” <em>by him</em>. For example, I did
not suppose that the charge that the Catholic missionaries
wanted 680 Chinamen beheaded was true;
but I did want to know if Dr. Ament personally
authorized that statement and the others, as coming
from his lips. Another detail: one of my conditions
was that Mr. Chamberlain must not stop with confessing
that the C. E. was a “false invention,” he
must also confess that it was “<em>unauthorized</em>.” Dr.
Smith has left out that large detail. (6) The <cite>Sun’s</cite>
news agency did not “declare the C. E. dispatch
false,” but confined itself to correcting one unimportant
detail of its long list--the change of “13
times” to “one third” extra. (7) The “two conditions”
have not “been fulfilled”--far from it. (8)
Those details labeled “facts” are only fancies. (9)
Finally, my criticisms were by no means confined to
that detail of the C. E. dispatch which we now accept
as having been a “cable blunder.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Setting to one side these nine departures from fact,
I find that what is left of the eleven lines is straight
and true. I am not blaming Dr. Smith for these discrepancies--it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>would not be right, it would not be
fair. I make the proper allowances. He has not
been a journalist, as I have been--a trade wherein
a person is brought to book by the rest of the
press so often for divergencies that, by and by,
he gets to be almost morbidly afraid to indulge
in them. It is so with me. I always have the disposition
to tell what is not so; I was born with
it; we all have it. But I try not to do it now,
because I have found out that it is unsafe. But
with the Doctor of course it is different.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT G</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>I wanted to get at the whole of the facts as regards
the C. E. dispatch, and so I wrote to China for them,
when I found that the Board was not going to do it.
But I am not allowed to wait. It seemed quite
within the possibilities that a full detail of the facts
might furnish me a chance to make an apology to
Mr. Ament--a chance which, I give you my word, I
would have honestly used, and not abused. But it
is no matter. If the Board is not troubled about
the bulk of that lurid dispatch, why should I be?
I answered the apology-urging letters of several clergymen
with the information that I had written to
China for the details, and said I thought it was the
only sure way of getting into a position to do fair
and full justice to all concerned; but a couple of
them replied that it was not a matter that could
wait. That is to say, groping your way out of a
jungle in the dark with guesses and conjectures is
<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>better than a straight march out in the sunlight of
fact. It seems a curious idea.</p>

<p class='c001'>However, those two clergymen were in a large
measure right--from their point of view and the
Board’s; which is, putting it in the form of a couple
of questions:</p>

<p class='c001'>1. <i>Did Dr. Ament collect the assessed damages and
thirteen times over?</i> The answer is: He did <em>not</em>. He
collected only a <em>third</em> over.</p>

<p class='c001'>2. <i>Did he apply the third to the “propagation of the
Gospel?”</i> The answer is this correction: He applied
it to “church expenses.” Part or all of the outlay,
it appears, goes to “supporting widows and orphans.”
It may be that church expenses and supporting
widows and orphans are not part of the machinery
for propagating the Gospel. I supposed they were,
but it isn’t any matter; I prefer this phrasing; it is
not so blunt as the other.</p>

<p class='c001'>In the opinion of the two clergymen and of the
Board, these two points are <em>the only important ones</em>
in the whole C. E. dispatch.</p>

<p class='c001'>I accept that. Therefore let us throw out the
rest of the dispatch as being no longer a part of
Dr. Ament’s case.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT H</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>The two clergymen and the Board are quite content with Dr.
Ament’s answers upon the two points.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>Upon the first point of the two, my own viewpoint
may be indicated by a question:</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Did Dr. Ament collect from B (whether by compulsion
or simple demand) even so much as a penny in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>payment for murders or depredations, without knowing,
beyond question, that B, and not another, committed
the murders or the depredations?</i></p>

<p class='c001'>Or, in other words:</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Did Dr. Ament ever, by chance or through ignorance,
make the innocent pay the debts of the guilty?</i></p>

<p class='c001'>In the article entitled “To the Person Sitting in
Darkness,” I put forward that point in a paragraph
taken from Macallum’s (imaginary) “History”:</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>EXHIBIT I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>When a white Boxer kills a Pawnee and destroys his property
the other Pawnees do not trouble to seek <em>him</em> out; they kill any
white person that comes along; also, they make some white
village pay deceased’s heirs the full cash value of deceased,
together with full cash value of the property destroyed; they
also make the village pay, in addition, <em>thirteen times</em><a id='r13' /><a href='#f13' class='c022'><sup>[13]</sup></a> the value
of that property into a fund for the dissemination of the Pawnee
religion, which they regard as the best of all religions for the
softening and humanizing of the heart of man. It is their idea
that it is only fair and right <em>that the innocent should be made to
suffer for the guilty</em>, and that it is better that 90 and 9 innocent
should suffer than that one guilty person should escape.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>We all know that Dr. Ament did not bring suspected
persons into a duly organized court and try
them by just and fair Christian and civilized methods,
but proclaimed his “conditions,” and collected damages
from the innocent and the guilty alike, without
any court proceedings at all.<a id='r14' /><a href='#f14' class='c022'><sup>[14]</sup></a> That he himself, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>not the villagers, made the “conditions,” we learn
from his letter of November 13th, already quoted
from--the one in which he remarked that, upon <em>that</em>
occasion he brought no soldiers with him. The
italics are mine:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'>After our <em>conditions</em> were known many villagers came of their
own accord and brought their money with them.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>Not all, but “many.” The Board really believes
that those hunted and harried paupers out there
were not only willing to strip themselves to pay
Boxer damages, whether they owed them or not,
but were sentimentally eager to do it. Mr. Ament
says, in his letter: “The villagers were extremely
grateful because I brought no foreign soldiers, and
were glad to settle on the terms proposed.” Some
of those people know more about theology than they
do about human nature. I do not remember encountering
even a Christian who was “glad” to pay money
he did not owe; and as for a Chinaman doing it, why,
dear me, the thing is unthinkable. We have all seen
Chinamen, many Chinamen, but not that kind. It
is a new kind: an invention of the Board--and
“soldiers.”</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
  <div class='nf-center'>
    <div>CONCERNING THE COLLECTIONS</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c001'>What was the “one third extra”? Money due?
No. Was it a theft, then? Putting aside the “one
third extra,” what was the <em>remainder</em> of the exacted
indemnity, if collected from persons not <em>known</em> to
owe it, and without Christian and civilized forms of
procedure? Was <em>it</em> theft, was it robbery? In
America it would be that; in Christian Europe it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>would be that. I have great confidence in Dr.
Smith’s judgment concerning this detail, and he calls
it “theft and extortion”--even in China; for he
was talking about the “thirteen times” at the time
that he gave it that strong name.<a id='r15' /><a href='#f15' class='c022'><sup>[15]</sup></a> It is his idea that,
when you make guilty and innocent villagers pay
the appraised damages, and then make them pay
thirteen times that, besides, the <em>thirteen</em> stand for
“theft and extortion.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Then what does <em>one third</em> extra stand for? Will
he give that one third a name? Is it Modified Theft
and Extortion? Is that it? The girl who was
rebuked for having borne an illegitimate child
excused herself by saying, “But it is such a <em>little</em> one.”</p>

<p class='c001'>When the “thirteen-times-extra” was alleged, it
stood for theft and extortion, in Dr. Smith’s eyes,
and he was shocked. But when Dr. Ament showed
that he had taken only a <em>third</em> extra, instead of
thirteenfold, Dr. Smith was relieved, content, happy.
I declare I cannot imagine why. That editor--quoted
at the head of this article--was happy about it, too.
I cannot think why. He thought I ought to “make
for the amen corner and formulate a prompt apology.”
To whom, and for what? It is too deep for me.</p>

<p class='c001'>To Dr. Smith, the “thirteenfold extra” clearly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>stood for “theft and extortion,” and he was right,
distinctly right, indisputably right. He manifestly
thinks that when it got scaled away down to a mere
“one third,” a little thing like that was something
other than “theft and extortion.” Why? Only the
Board knows! I will try to explain this difficult
problem, so that the Board can get an idea of it.
If a pauper owes me a dollar, and I catch him unprotected
and make him pay me fourteen dollars, thirteen
of it is “theft and extortion”; if I make him
pay only a dollar and thirty-three and a third cents
the thirty-three and a third cents are “theft and
extortion” just the same. I will put it in another
way, still simpler. If a man owes me one dog--any
kind of a dog, the breed is of no consequence--and
I----But let it go; the Board would never
understand it. It <em>can’t</em> understand these involved
and difficult things.</p>

<p class='c001'>But <em>if</em> the Board could understand, then I could
furnish some more instruction--which is this. The
one third, obtained by “theft and extortion,” is
<em>tainted money</em>, and cannot be purified even by defraying
“church expenses” and “supporting widows and
orphans” with it. It has to be restored to the
people it was taken from.</p>

<p class='c001'>Also, there is another view of these things. By
our Christian code of morals and law, the <em>whole</em>
$1.33 1-3, if taken from a man not formally <em>proven</em>
to have committed the damage the dollar represents,
is “theft and extortion.” It cannot be honestly
used for any purpose at all. It must be handed back
to the man it was taken from.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>Is there no way, then, to justify these thefts and
extortions and make them clean and fair and honorable?
Yes, there is. It can be done; it has been
done; it continues to be done--by revising the Ten
Commandments and bringing them down to date:
for use in pagan lands. For example:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c001'><em>Thou shalt not steal</em>--except when it is the custom of the country.</p>

</div>

<p class='c001'>This way out is recognized and <em>approved</em> by all
the best authorities, including the Board. I will cite
witnesses.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>The newspaper cutting, above</i>: “Dr. Ament declares
that all the collections which he made were approved
by the <em>Chinese</em> officials.” The editor is satisfied.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Dr. Ament’s cable to Dr. Smith</i>: “All collections
received approval <em>Chinese</em> officials.” Dr. Ament is
satisfied.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Letters from eight clergymen</i>--all to the same effect:
Dr. Ament merely did as the <em>Chinese</em> do. So they
are satisfied.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>Mr. Ward, of the “Independent.”</i></p>

<p class='c001'><i>The Rev. Dr. Washington Gladden.</i></p>

<p class='c001'>I have mislaid the letters of these gentlemen and cannot
quote their words, but they are of the satisfied.</p>

<p class='c001'><i>The Rev. Dr. Smith</i>, in his Open Letter, published
in the <cite>Tribune:</cite> “The whole procedure [Dr. Ament’s]
is in accordance with a custom among the <em>Chinese</em>,
of holding a village responsible for wrongs suffered
in that village, and especially making the head man
of the village accountable for wrongs committed
there.” Dr. Smith is satisfied. Which means that
the Board is satisfied.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>The “head man”! Why, then, this poor rascal,
innocent or guilty, must pay the whole bill, if he
cannot squeeze it out of his poor-devil neighbors.
But, indeed, he can be depended upon to try, even
to the skinning them of their last brass farthing,
their last rag of clothing, their last ounce of food. He
can be depended upon to get the indemnity out of them,
though it cost stripes and blows, blood-tears, and flesh.</p>

<p class='c001'>THE TALE OF THE KING AND HIS TREASURER</p>

<p class='c001'>How strange and remote and romantic and Oriental
and Arabian-Nighty it all seems--and is. It
brings back the old forgotten tales, and we hear the
King say to his Treasurer:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Bring me 30,000 gold tomauns.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Allah preserve us, Sire! the treasury is empty.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Do you hear? Bring the money--in ten days.
Else, send me your head in a basket.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“I hear and obey.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The Treasurer summons the head men of a hundred
villages, and says to one:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Bring me a hundred gold tomauns.” To another,
“Bring me five hundred.” To another, “Bring a
thousand. In ten days. Your head is the forfeit.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Your slaves kiss your feet! Ah, high and mighty
lord, be merciful to our hard-pressed villagers; they
are poor, they are naked, they starve; oh, these
impossible sums! even the half----”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Go! Grind it out of them, crush it out of them,
turn the blood of the fathers, the tears of the mothers,
the milk of the babes to money--or take the consequences.
Have you heard?”</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>“His will be done, Who is the Fount of love and
mercy and compassion, Who layeth this heavy burden
upon us by the hand of His anointed servants--blessed
be His holy Name! The father shall bleed,
the mother shall faint for hunger, the babe shall
perish at the dry breast. The chosen of God have
commanded: it shall be as they say.”</p>

<p class='c001'>I am not meaning to object to the substitution of
pagan customs for Christian, here and there and
now and then, when the Christian ones are inconvenient.
No; I like it and admire it. I do it myself.
And I admire the alertness of the Board in watching
out for chances to trade Board morals for Chinese
morals, and get the best of the swap; for I cannot
endure those people, they are yellow, and I have
never considered yellow becoming. I have always
been like the Board--perfectly well-meaning, but
destitute of the Moral Sense. Now, one of the main
reasons why it is so hard to make the Board understand
that there is no moral difference between a
big filch and a little filch, but only a legal one, is
that vacancy in its make-up. Morally, there are
no degrees in stealing. The Commandment merely
says, “Thou shalt not <em>steal</em>,” and stops there. It
doesn’t recognize any difference between stealing a
third and stealing thirteenfold. If I could think of
a way to put it before the Board in such a plain and--</p>

<p class='c001'>THE WATERMELONS</p>

<p class='c001'>I have it, now. Many years ago, when I was
studying for the gallows, I had a dear comrade, a
youth who was not in my line, but still a thoroughly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>good fellow, though devious. He was preparing to
qualify for a place on the Board, for there was going
to be a vacancy by superannuation in about five
years. This was down South, in the slavery days.
It was the nature of the negro then, as now, to steal
watermelons. They stole three of the melons of an
adoptive brother of mine, the only good ones he
had. I suspected three of a neighbor’s negroes, but
there was no proof: and, besides, the watermelons
in those negroes’ private patches were all green and
small, and not up to indemnity standard. But in
the private patches of three other negroes there were
a number of competent melons. I consulted with
my comrade, the understudy of the Board. He
said that if I would approve his arrangements, he
would arrange. I said, “Consider me the Board;
I approve: arrange.” So he took a gun, and went
and collected three large melons for my brother-on-the-half-shell,
and one over. I was greatly pleased,
and asked:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Who gets the extra one?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“Widows and orphans.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“A good idea, too. Why didn’t you take thirteen?”</p>

<p class='c001'>“It would have been wrong; a crime, in fact--Theft
and Extortion.”</p>

<p class='c001'>“What is the one third extra--the odd melon--the
same?”</p>

<p class='c001'>It caused him to reflect. But there was no result.</p>

<p class='c001'>The justice of the peace was a stern man. On the
trial, he found fault with the scheme, and required
us to explain upon what we based our strange conduct--as
he called it. The understudy said:</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>“On the custom of the niggers. They all do it.”</p>

<p class='c001'>The justice forgot his dignity, and descended to
sarcasm:</p>

<p class='c001'>“Custom of the niggers! Are our morals so inadequate
that we have to borrow of niggers?” Then
he said to the jury: “Three melons were owing;
they were collected from persons not proven to owe
them; this is theft. They were collected by compulsion;
this is extortion. A melon was added--for
the widows and orphans. It was owed by no one.
It is another theft, another extortion. Return it
whence it came, with the others. It is not permissible,
here, to apply to any object goods dishonestly
obtained--not even to the feeding of widows and
orphans, for that would be to put a shame upon
charity and dishonor it.”</p>

<p class='c001'>He said it in open court, before everybody, and
to me it did not seem very kind.</p>

<p class='c001'>A clergyman, in a letter to me, reminds me, with
a touch of reproach, that “many of the missionaries
are good men, kind-hearted, earnest, devoted to their
work.” Certainly they are. No one is disputing it.
Instead of “many,” he could have said “almost all,”
and still said the truth, no doubt. I know many
missionaries; I have met them all about the globe,
and have known only one or two who could not fill
that bill and answer to that description. “Almost
all” comes near to being a proportion and a description
applicable also to lawyers, authors, editors, merchants,
manufacturers--in fact, to most guilds and
vocations. Without a doubt, Dr. Ament did what
he believed to be right, and I concede that when a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>man is doing what he believes to be right, there is
argument on his side. I differ with Dr. Ament, but
that is only because he got his training from the
Board and I got mine outside. Neither of us is
responsible, altogether.</p>

<p class='c001'>RECAPITULATION</p>

<p class='c001'>But there is no need to sum up. Mr. Ament has
acknowledged the “one third extra”--no other witness
is necessary. The Rev. Dr. Smith has carefully
considered the act and labeled it with a stern name,
and his verdict seems to have no flaw in it. The
morals of the act are Chinese, but are approved by
the Board, and by some of the clergy and some of
the newspapers, as being a valuable improvement
upon Christian ones--which leaves me with a closed
mouth, though with a pain in my heart.</p>

<p class='c001'>IS THE AMERICAN BOARD ON TRIAL?</p>

<p class='c001'>Do I think that Dr. Ament and certain of his fellow
missionaries are as bad as their conduct? No,
I do not. They are the product of their training;
and now that I understand the whole case, and where
they got their ideals, and that they are merely
subordinates and subject to authority, I comprehend
that they are rather accessories than principals, and
that their acts only show faulty heads curiously
trained, not bad hearts. Mainly, as it seems to me,
it is the American Board that is on trial. And
again, it is a case of the head, not of the heart.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>That it has a heart which has never harbored an
evil intention, no one will deny, no one will question;
the Board’s history can silence any challenge on
that score. The Board’s heart is not in court: it is
its head that is on trial.</p>

<p class='c001'>It is a sufficiently strange head. Its ways baffle
comprehension; its ideas are like no one else’s; its
methods are novelties to the practical world; its
judgments are surprises. When one thinks it is
going to speak and must speak, it is silent; when one
thinks it ought to be silent and must be silent, it
speaks. Put your finger where you think it ought
to be, it is not there; put it where you think it ought
not to be, there you find it.</p>

<p class='c001'>When its servant in China seemed to be charging
himself with amazing things, in a reputable journal--in
a dispatch which was copied into many other
papers--the Board was as silent about it as any
dead man could have been who was informed that
his house was burning over his head. An exchange
of cablegrams could have enabled it, within two days,
to prove to the world--possibly--that the damaging
dispatch had not proceeded from the mouth of its
servant; yet it sat silent and asked no questions
about the matter.</p>

<p class='c001'>It was silent during thirty-eight days. Then the
dispatch came into prominence again. It chanced
that I was the occasion of it. A break in the stillness
followed. In what form? An exchange of
cablegrams, resulting in proof that the damaging
dispatch had not been authorized? No, in the form
of an Open Letter by the Corresponding Secretary
<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>of the American Board, the Rev. Dr. Smith, in which
it was <em>argued</em> that Dr. Ament could not have said
and done the things set forth in the dispatch.</p>

<p class='c001'>Surely, this was bad politics. A repudiating telegram
would have been worth more than a library of
argument.</p>

<p class='c001'>An extension of the silence would have been better
than the Open Letter, I think. I thought so at the
time. It seemed to me that mistakes enough had
been made and harm enough done. I thought it
questionable policy to publish the Letter, for I “did
not think it likely that Dr. Ament would disown
the dispatch,” and I telegraphed that to the Rev.
Dr. Smith. Personally, I had nothing against Dr.
Ament, and that is my attitude yet.</p>

<p class='c001'>Once more it was a good time for an extension of
the silence. But no; the Board has its own ways,
and one of them is to do the unwise thing, when
occasion offers. After having waited fifty-six days,
it cabled to Dr. Ament. No one can divine why it
did so then, instead of fifty-six days earlier.<a id='r16' /><a href='#f16' class='c022'><sup>[16]</sup></a> It
got a fatal reply--and was not aware of it. That
was that curious confession about the “one third
extra”; its application, not to the “propagation of
the Gospel,” but only to “church expenses,” support
of widows and orphans; and, on top of this confession,
that other strange one revealing the dizzying
fact that our missionaries, who went to China to
teach Christian morals and justice, had adopted
<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>pagan morals and justice in their place. <em>That cablegram
was dynamite.</em></p>

<p class='c001'>It seems odd that the Board did not see that that
revelation made the case far worse than it was before;
for there was a saving doubt, before--a doubt which
was a Gibraltar for strength, and should have been
carefully left undisturbed. Why did the Board allow
that revelation to get into print? Why did the
Board not suppress it and keep still? But no; in
the Board’s opinion, this was once more the time for
speech. Hence Dr. Smith’s latest letter to me, suggesting
that I speak also--a letter which is a good
enough letter, barring its nine defects, but is another
evidence that the Board’s head is not as good as its
heart.</p>

<p class='c001'>A missionary is a man who is pretty nearly all
heart, else he would not be in a calling which requires
of him such large sacrifices of one kind and another.
He is made up of faith, zeal, courage, sentiment,
emotion, enthusiasm; and so he is a mixture of
poet, devotee, and knight errant. He exiles himself
from home and friends and the scenes and associations
that are dearest to him; patiently endures discomforts,
privations, discouragements; goes with
good pluck into dangers which he knows may cost
him his life; and when he must suffer death, willingly
makes that supreme sacrifice for his cause.</p>

<p class='c001'>Sometimes the headpiece of that kind of a man
can be of an inferior sort, and error of judgment can
result--as we have seen. Then, for his protection,
as it seems to me, he ought to have at his back a
Board able to know a blunder when it sees one, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>prompt to bring him back upon his right course when
he strays from it. That is to say, I think the captain
of a ship ought to understand navigation. Whether
he does or not, he will have to take a captain’s share
of the blame, if the crew bring the vessel to grief.</p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f11'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r11'>11</a>. Testimony of the manager of the <cite>Sun</cite>.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f12'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r12'>12</a>. Cable error. For “thirteen times” read “one third.” This
correction was made by Dr. Ament in his brief cablegram published
February 20th, previously referred to.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f13'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r13'>13</a>. For “thirteen times” read “one third.”--M. T.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f14'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r14'>14</a>. In civilized countries, if a mob destroy property in a town, the
damage is paid out of the town treasury, and no taxpayer suffers
a disproportionate share of the burden; the mayor is not privileged
to distribute the burden according to his private notions, sparing
himself and his friends, and fleecing persons he holds a spite against--as
in the Orient--and the citizen who is too poor to be a taxpayer
pays no part of the fine at all.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f15'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r15'>15</a>. In his Open Letter, Dr. Smith cites Dr. Ament’s letter of
November 13th, which contains an account of Dr. Ament’s collecting
tour; then Dr. Smith makes this comment: “Nothing is said
of securing ‘thirteen times’ the amount of the losses.” Farther
down, Dr. Smith quotes praises of Dr. Ament and his work (from
a letter of the Rev. Dr. Sheffield), and adds this comment: “Dr.
Sheffield is not accustomed to speak thus in praise of thieves, or
extortioners, or braggarts.” The reference is to the “thirteen-times”
extra tax.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f16'>
<p class='c001'><a href='#r16'>16</a>. The cablegram went on the day (February 18th) that Mr.
George Lynch’s account of the looting was published. See “Exhibit
B.” It seems a pity it did not inquire about the looting and get it
denied.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THOMAS BRACKETT REED</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>He wore no shell. His ways were frank and open,
and the road to his large sympathies was
straight and unobstructed. His was a nature which
invited affection--compelled it, in fact--and met it
halfway. Hence he was “Tom” to the most of his
friends, and to half of the nation. The abbreviating
of such a man’s name is a patent of nobility, and is
conferred from the heart. Mr. Reed had a very
strong and decided character, and he may have had
enemies; I do not know; if he had them--outside
of politics--they did not know the man. He was
transparently honest and honorable, there were no
furtivenesses about him, and whoever came to know
him trusted him and was not disappointed. He was
wise, he was shrewd and alert, he was a clear and
capable thinker, a logical reasoner, and a strong and
convincing speaker. His manner was easy and engaging,
his speeches sparkled with felicities of phrasing
thrown off without apparent effort, and when he
needed the happy help of humor he had a mine of
it as deep and rich as Kimberly to draw from. His
services to his country were great, and they were
gratefully acknowledged.</p>

<p class='c001'>I cannot remember back to a time when he was
not “Tom” Reed to me, nor to a time when he would
have been offended at being so addressed by me. I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>cannot remember back to a time when I could let
him alone in an after-dinner speech if he was present,
nor to a time when he did not take my extravagances
concerning him and misstatements about him in good
part, nor yet to a time when he did not pay them
back with usury when his turn came. The last
speech he made was at my birthday dinner at the
end of November, when naturally I was his text; my
last word to him was in a letter the next day; a day
later I was illustrating a fantastic article on Art with
his portrait among others--a portrait now to be laid
reverently away among the jests that begin in humor
and end in pathos. These things happened only
eight days ago, and now he is gone from us, and the
nation is speaking of him as one who <em>was</em>. It seems
incredible, impossible. Such a man, such a friend,
seems to us a permanent possession; his vanishing
from our midst is unthinkable; as unthinkable as
was the vanishing of the Campanile, that had stood
for a thousand years, and was turned to dust in a
moment.</p>

<p class='c001'>I have no wish, at this time, to enter upon light
and humorous reminiscences connected with yachting
voyages with Mr. Reed in northern and southern
seas, nor with other recreations in his company in
other places--they do not belong in this paper, they
do not invite me, they would jar upon me. I have
only wished to say how fine and beautiful was his
life and character, and to take him by the hand and
say good-by, as to a fortunate friend who has done
well his work and goes a pleasant journey.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE FINISHED BOOK <br /><span class='small'>(On Finishing <cite>Joan of Arc</cite>)</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='c031'><span class='sc'>Paris</span>, 1895.</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c018'>Do you know that shock? I mean, when you
come, at your regular hour, into the sick room
where you have watched for months, and find the
medicine bottles all gone, the night table removed,
the bed stripped, the furniture set stiffly to rights,
the windows up, the room cold, stark, vacant--and
you catch your breath. Do you know that shock?</p>

<p class='c001'>The man who has written a long book has that
experience the morning after he has revised it for the
last time, seen the bearers convey it from the house,
and sent it away to the printer. He steps into his
study at the hour established by the habit of months--and
he gets that little shock. All the litter and
the confusion are gone. The piles of dusty reference
books are gone from the chairs, the maps from the
floor; the chaos of letters, manuscripts, notebooks,
paper knives, pipes, matches, photographs, tobacco
jars, and cigar boxes is gone from the writing table.
The furniture is back where it use to be in the long
ago. The housemaid, forbidden the place for five
months, has been there, and tidied it up, and scoured
it clean, and made it repellent and awful.</p>

<p class='c001'>I stand here this morning, contemplating this desolation,
and I realize that if I would bring back the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>spirit that made this hospital homelike and pleasant
to me, I must restore the aids to lingering dissolution
to their wonted places, and nurse another patient
through and send it forth for the last rites, with
many or few to assist there, as may happen; and
that I will do.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>AS REGARDS PATRIOTISM <br /> <span class='small'>(About 1900)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>It is agreed, in this country, that if a man can
arrange his religion so that it perfectly satisfies
his conscience, it is not incumbent upon him to care
whether the arrangement is satisfactory to anyone
else or not.</p>

<p class='c001'>In Austria and some other countries this is not
the case. There the state arranges a man’s religion
for him, he has no voice in it himself.</p>

<p class='c001'>Patriotism is merely a religion--love of country,
worship of country, devotion to the country’s flag
and honor and welfare.</p>

<p class='c001'>In absolute monarchies it is furnished from the
throne, cut and dried, to the subject; in England
and America it is furnished, cut and dried, to the
citizen by the politician and the newspaper.</p>

<p class='c001'>The newspaper-and-politician-manufactured
Patriot often gags in private over his dose; but he
takes it, and keeps it on his stomach the best he can.
Blessed are the meek.</p>

<p class='c001'>Sometimes, in the beginning of an insane shabby
political upheaval, he is strongly moved to revolt,
but he doesn’t do it--he knows better. He knows
that his maker would find it out--the maker of his
Patriotism, the windy and incoherent six-dollar
subeditor of his village newspaper--and would bray
<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>out in print and call him a Traitor. And how dreadful
that would be. It makes him tuck his tail between
his legs and shiver. We all know--the reader knows
it quite well--that two or three years ago nine
tenths of the human tails in England and America
performed just that act. Which is to say, nine
tenths of the Patriots in England and America
turned traitor to keep from being called traitor.
Isn’t it true? You know it to be true. Isn’t it
curious?</p>

<p class='c001'>Yet it was not a thing to be very seriously ashamed
of. A man can seldom--very, very seldom--fight a
winning fight against his training; the odds are too
heavy. For many a year--perhaps always--the
training of the two nations had been dead against
independence in political thought, persistently inhospitable
toward patriotism manufactured on a man’s
own premises, Patriotism reasoned out in the man’s
own head and fire-assayed and tested and proved
in his own conscience. The resulting Patriotism
was a shop-worn product procured at second hand.
The Patriot did not know just how or when or where
he got his opinions, neither did he care, so long as he
was with what seemed the majority--which was the
main thing, the safe thing, the comfortable thing.
Does the reader believe he knows three men who
have actual reasons for their pattern of Patriotism--and
can furnish them? Let him not examine, unless
he wants to be disappointed. He will be likely to
find that his men got their Patriotism at the public
trough, and had no hand in its preparation
themselves.</p>

<p class='c001'><span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>Training does wonderful things. It moved the
people of this country to oppose the Mexican War;
<a id='corr303.3'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='them'>then</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_303.3'><ins class='correction' title='them'>then</ins></a></span> moved them to fall in with what they supposed
was the opinion of the majority--majority Patriotism
is the customary Patriotism--and go down there
and fight. Before the Civil War it made the North
indifferent to slavery and friendly to the slave interest;
in that interest it made Massachusetts hostile
to the American flag, and she would not allow it to
be hoisted on her State House--in her eyes it was
the flag of a faction. Then by and by, training
swung Massachusetts the other way, and she went
raging South to fight under that very flag and
against that aforetime protected interest of hers.</p>

<p class='c001'>There is nothing that training cannot do. Nothing
is above its reach or below it. It can turn bad
morals to good, good morals to bad; it can destroy
principles, it can recreate them; it can debase angels
to men and lift men to angelship. And it can do any
one of these miracles in a year--even in six months.</p>

<p class='c001'>Then men can be trained to manufacture their
own Patriotism. They can be trained to labor it
out in their own heads and hearts and in the privacy
and independence of their own premises. It can
train them to stop taking it by command, as the
Austrian takes his religion.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>DR. LOEB’S INCREDIBLE DISCOVERY</h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c014'>Experts in biology will be apt to receive with some skepticism
the announcement of Dr. Jacques Loeb of the University
of California as to the creation of life by chemical agencies....
Doctor Loeb is a very bright and ingenious experimenter,
but <em>a consensus of opinion among biologists</em> would show that
he is voted rather as a man of lively imagination than an inerrant
investigator of natural phenomena.--New York <cite>Times</cite>,
March 2d.</p>

</div>

<p class='c011'>I wish I could be as young as that again. Although
I seem so old, now, I was once as young as that. I
remember, as if it were but thirty or forty years ago,
how a paralyzing Consensus of Opinion accumulated
from Experts a-setting around, about brother experts
who had patiently and laboriously cold-chiseled their
way into one or another of nature’s safe-deposit
vaults and were reporting that they had found something
valuable was a plenty for me. It settled it.</p>

<p class='c001'>But it isn’t so now--no. Because, in the drift of
the years I by and by found out that a Consensus
examines a new thing with its feelings rather oftener
than with its mind. You know, yourself, that that
is so. Do those people examine with feelings that
are friendly to evidence? You know they don’t. It
is the other way about. They do the examining by
the light of their prejudices--now isn’t that true?</p>

<p class='c001'>With curious results, yes. So curious that you
wonder the Consensuses do not go out of the business.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>Do you know of a case where a Consensus
won a game? You can go back as far as you want
to and you will find history furnishing you this (until
now) unwritten maxim for your guidance and profit:
Whatever new thing a Consensus coppers (colloquial
for “bets against”), bet your money on that very
card and do not be afraid.</p>

<p class='c001'>There was that primitive steam engine--ages back,
in Greek times: a Consensus made fun of it. There
was the Marquis of Worcester’s steam engine, 250
years ago: a Consensus made fun of it. There was
Fulton’s steamboat of a century ago: a French Consensus,
including the Great Napoleon, made fun of
it. There was Priestly, with his oxygen: a Consensus
scoffed at him, mobbed him, burned him out,
banished him. While a Consensus was proving, by
statistics and things, that a steamship could not
cross the Atlantic, a steamship did it. A Consensus
consisting of all the medical experts in Great Britain
made fun of Jenner and inoculation. A Consensus
consisting of all the medical experts in France made
fun of the stethoscope. A Consensus of all the
medical experts in Germany made fun of that young
doctor (his name? forgotten by all but doctors, now,
revered now by doctors alone) who discovered and
abolished the cause of that awful disease, puerperal
fever; made fun of him, reviled him, hunted him,
persecuted him, broke his heart, killed him. Electric
telegraph, Atlantic cable, telephone, all “toys,” and
of no practical value--verdict of the Consensuses.
Geology, palæontology, evolution--all brushed into
space by a Consensus of theological experts, comprising
<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>all the preachers in Christendom, assisted by
the Duke of Argyle and (at first) the other scientists.
And do look at Pasteur and his majestic honor roll
of prodigious benefactions! Damned--each and
every one of them in its turn--by frenzied and ferocious
Consensuses of medical and chemical Experts
comprising, for years, every member of the tribe in
Europe; damned without even a casual <em>look</em> at what
he was doing--and he pathetically imploring them
to come and take at least one little look before
making the damnation eternal. They shortened his
life by their malignities and persecutions; and thus
robbed the world of the further and priceless services
of a man who--along certain lines and within certain
limits--had done more for the human race than any
other one man in all its long history: a man whom
it had taken the Expert brotherhood ten thousand
years to produce, and whose mate and match the
brotherhood may possibly not be able to bring forth
and assassinate in another ten thousand. The
preacher has an old and tough reputation for bull-headed
and unreasoning hostility to new light; why,
he is not “in it” with the doctor! Nor, perhaps,
with some of the other breeds of Experts that sit
around and get up the Consensuses and squelch the
new things as fast as they come from the hands of
the plodders, the searchers, the inspired dreamers,
the Pasteurs that come bearing pearls to scatter in
the Consensus sty.</p>

<p class='c001'>This is warm work! It puts my temperature up
to 106 and raises my pulse to the limit. It always
works just so when the red rag of a Consensus jumps
<span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>my fence and starts across my pasture. I have been
a Consensus more than once myself, and I know the
business--and its vicissitudes. I am a compositor-expert,
of old and seasoned experience; nineteen
years ago I delivered the final-and-for-good verdict
that the linotype would never be able to earn its own
living nor anyone else’s: it takes fourteen acres of
ground, now, to accommodate its factories in England.
Thirty-five years ago I was an expert precious-metal
quartz-miner. There was an outcrop in my
neighborhood that assayed $600 a ton--gold. But
every fleck of gold in it was shut up tight and fast
in an intractable and impersuadable base-metal
shell. Acting as a Consensus, I delivered the finality
verdict that no human ingenuity would ever be able
to set free two dollars’ worth of gold out of a ton of
that rock. The fact is, I did not foresee the cyanide
process. Indeed, I have been a Consensus ever so
many times since I reached maturity and approached
the age of discretion, but I call to mind no instance
in which I won out.</p>

<p class='c001'>These sorrows have made me suspicious of Consensuses.
Do you know, I tremble and the goose
flesh rises on my skin every time I encounter one,
now. I sheer warily off and get behind something,
saying to myself, “It looks innocent and all right,
but no matter, ten to one there’s a cyanide process
under that thing somewhere.”</p>

<p class='c001'>Now as concerns this “creation of life by chemical
agencies.” Reader, take my advice: don’t you copper
it. I don’t say bet on it; no, I only say, don’t
you copper it. As you see, there is a Consensus out
<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>against it. If you find that you can’t control your
passions; if you feel that you have <em>got</em> to copper
something and can’t help it, copper the Consensus.
It is the safest way--all history confirms it. If you
are young, you will, of course, have to put up, on one
side or the other, for you will not be able to restrain
yourself; but as for me, I am old, and I am going to
wait for a new deal.</p>

<p class='c013'><i>P.S.</i>--In the same number of the <cite>Times</cite> Doctor
Funk says: “Man may be as badly fooled by believing
too little as by believing too much; the hard-headed
skeptic Thomas was the only disciple who was
cheated.” Is that the right and rational way to look
at it? I will not be sure, for my memory is faulty, but
it has always been my impression that Thomas was the
only one who made an examination and proved a fact,
while the others were accepting, or discounting, the
fact on trust--like any other Consensus. If that is so,
Doubting Thomas removed a doubt which must
otherwise have confused and troubled the world until
now. Including Doctor Funk. It seems to me that
we owe that hard-headed--or sound-headed--witness
something more than a slur. Why does Doctor
Funk <em>examine</em> into spiritism, and then throw stones
at Thomas. Why doesn’t he take it on trust? Has
inconsistency become a jewel in Lafayette Place?</p>

<div class='c032'><span class='sc'>Old-Man-Afraid-of-the-Consensus.</span></div>

<p class='c013'><i>Extract from Adam’s Diary.</i>--Then there was a
Consensus about it. It was the very first one. It
sat six days and nights. It was then delivered of the
verdict that a world could not be made out of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>nothing; that such small things as sun and moon
and stars might, maybe, but it would take years
and years, if there was considerable many of them.
Then the Consensus got up and looked out of the
window, and there was the whole outfit spinning and
sparkling in space! You never saw such a disappointed
lot.</p>

<div class='lg-container-r c023'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line in2'>his</div>
      <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Adam</span>--i--</div>
      <div class='line in2'>mark</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE DERVISH AND THE OFFENSIVE<br /> STRANGER</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'><i>The Dervish</i>: I will say again, and yet again, and
still again, that a good deed----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Peace, and, O man of narrow
vision! There is no such thing as a good <em>deed</em>----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: O shameless blasphe----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: And no such thing as an
evil deed. There are good <em>impulses</em>, there are evil
impulses, and that is all. Half of the results of a
good intention are evil; half the results of an evil
intention are good. No man can command the
results, nor allot them.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: And so----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: And so you shall praise
men for their good intentions, and not blame them
for the evils resulting; you shall blame men for
their evil intentions, and not praise them for the
good resulting.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: O maniac! will you say----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Listen to the law: From
<em>every</em> impulse, whether good or evil, flow two streams;
the one carries health, the other carries poison.
From the beginning of time this law has not changed,
to the end of time it will not change.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: If I should strike thee dead in
anger----</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Or kill me with a drug which
you hoped would give me new life and strength----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: Very well. Go on.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: In either case the results
would be the same. Age-long misery of mind for
you--an evil result; peace, repose, the end of sorrow
for me--a good result. Three hearts that hold me
dear would break; three pauper cousins of the third
removed would get my riches and rejoice; you would
go to prison and your friends would grieve, but your
humble apprentice-priest would step into your shoes
and your fat sleek life and be happy. And are these
all the goods and all the evils that would flow from
the well-intended or ill-intended act that cut short
my life, O thoughtless one, O purblind creature? The
good and evil results that flow from <em>any</em> act, even
the smallest, breed on and on, century after century,
forever and ever and ever, creeping by inches around
the globe, affecting all its coming and going populations
until the end of time, until the final cataclysm!</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: Then, there being no such thing
as a good deed----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Don’t I tell you there
are good <em>intentions</em>, and evil ones, and there an
end? The <em>results</em> are not foreseeable. They are of
both kinds, in all cases. It is the law. Listen:
this is far-Western history:</p>

<h3 class='c012'>VOICES OUT OF UTAH</h3>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c035'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'><i>The White Chief</i> (<i>to his people</i>): This wide plain
was a desert. By our Heaven-blest industry we have
<span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>damned the river and utilized its waters and turned
the desert into smiling fields whose fruitage makes
prosperous and happy a thousand homes where
poverty and hunger dwelt before. How noble, how
beneficent, is Civilization!</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'><i>Indian Chief</i> (<i>to his people</i>): This wide plain,
which the Spanish priests taught our fathers to
irrigate, was a smiling field, whose fruitage made
our homes prosperous and happy. The white American
has damned our river, taken away our water
for his own valley, and turned our field into a desert;
wherefore we starve.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: I perceive that the good intention
did really bring both good and evil results in equal
measure. But a single case cannot prove the rule.
Try again.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Pardon me, <em>all</em> cases
prove it. Columbus discovered a new world and
gave to the plodding poor and the landless of Europe
farms and breathing space and plenty and
happiness----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: A good result.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: And they hunted and
harried the original owners of the soil, and robbed
them, beggared them, drove them from their homes,
and exterminated them, root and branch.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: An evil result, yes.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: The French Revolution
brought desolation to the hearts and homes of five
<span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>million families and drenched the country with blood
and turned its wealth to poverty.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: An evil result.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: But every great and
precious liberty enjoyed by the nations of continental
Europe to-day are the gift of that Revolution.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: A good result, I concede it.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: In our well-meant effort to
lift up the Filipino to our own moral altitude with
a musket, we have slipped on the ice and fallen down
to his.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: A large evil result.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: But as an offset we are a
World Power.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: Give me time. I must think this
one over. Pass on.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: By help of three hundred
thousand soldiers and eight hundred million dollars
England has succeeded in her good purpose of lifting
up the unwilling Boers and making them better and
purer and happier than they could ever have become
by their own devices.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: Certainly that is a good result.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: But there are only eleven
Boers left now.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: It has the appearance of an evil
result. But I will think it over before I decide.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: Take yet one more
instance. With the best intentions the missionary
has been laboring in China for eighty years.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: The evil result is----</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: That nearly a hundred
thousand Chinamen have acquired our Civilization.</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Dervish</i>: And the good result is----</p>

<p class='c034'><i>The Offensive Stranger</i>: That by the compassion
of God four hundred millions have escaped it.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>INSTRUCTIONS IN ART<br /> <span class='small'>(With Illustrations by the Author)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>The great trouble about painting a whole gallery
of portraits at the same time is, that the housemaid
comes and dusts, and does not put them back
the way they were before, and so when the public
flock to the studio and wish to know which is
Howells and which is Depew and so on, you have
to dissemble, and it is very embarrassing at first.
Still, you know they are there, and this knowledge
presently gives you more or less confidence, and
you say sternly, “<em>This</em> is Howells,” and watch the
visitor’s eye. If you see doubt there, you correct
yourself and try another. In time you find one that
will satisfy, and then you feel relief and joy, but
you have suffered much in the meantime; and you
know that this joy is only temporary, for the next
inquirer will settle on another Howells of a quite
different aspect, and one which you suspect is
Edward VII or Cromwell, though you keep that to
yourself, of course. It is much better to label a
portrait when you first paint it, then there is no
uncertainty in your mind and you can get bets
out of the visitor and win them.</p>

<p class='c034'>I believe I have had the most trouble with a portrait
which I painted in installments--the head on
one canvas and the bust on another.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id006'>
<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>
<img src='images/i316.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>THE HEAD ON ONE CANVAS</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>The housemaid stood the bust up sideways, and
now I don’t know which way it goes. Some authorities
think it belongs with the breastpin at the top,
under the man’s chin; others think it belongs the
reverse way, on account of the collar, one of these
saying, “A person can wear a breastpin on his
stomach if he wants to, but he can’t wear his collar
anywhere he dern pleases.” There is a certain
amount of sense in that view of it. Still, there is
no way to determine the matter for certain; when
you join the installments, with the pin under the
chin, that seems to be right; then when you reverse
it and bring the collar under the chin it seems as
right as ever; whichever way you fix it the lines
come together snug and convincing, and either way
you do it the portrait’s face looks equally surprised
and rejoiced, and as if it wouldn’t be satisfied to
have it any way but just that one; in fact, even if
you take the bust away altogether the face seems
surprised and happy just the same--I have never
seen an expression before, which no vicissitudes could
alter. I wish I could remember who it is. It looks
a little like Washington, but I do not think it can be
Washington, because he had as many ears on one
<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>side as the other. You can always tell Washington
by that; he was very particular about his ears, and
about having them arranged the same old way all
the time.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id001'>
<img src='images/i317.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>AND THE BUST ON ANOTHER</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>By and by I shall get out of these confusions,
and then it will be plain sailing; but first-off the
confusions were natural and not to be avoided. My
reputation came very suddenly and tumultuously
when I published my own portrait, and it turned my
head a little, for indeed there was never anything
like it. In a single day I got orders from sixty-two
people not to paint their portraits, some of them
the most distinguished persons in the country--the
President, the Cabinet, authors, governors, admirals,
candidates for office on the weak side--almost everybody
that was anybody, and it would really have
turned the head of nearly any beginner to get so
much notice and have it come with such a frenzy
of cordiality. But I am growing calm and settling
down to business, now; and pretty soon I shall cease
to be flurried, and then when I do a portrait I shall
<span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>be quite at myself and able on the instant to tell it
from the others and pick it out when wanted.</p>

<p class='c034'>I am living a new and exalted life of late. It
steeps me in a sacred rapture to see a portrait
develop and take soul under my hand. First, I
throw off a study--just a mere study, a few apparently
random lines--and to look at it you would
hardly ever suspect who it was going to be; even I
cannot tell, myself. Take this picture, for instance:</p>

<div  class='figcenter id007'>
<img src='images/i318.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>FIRST YOU THINK IT’S DANTE; NEXT YOU THINK IT’S EMERSON; THEN YOU THINK IT’S WAYNE MAC VEAGH. YET IT ISN’T ANY OF THEM; IT’S THE BEGINNINGS OF DEPEW</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>First you think it’s Dante; next you think it’s
<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>Emerson; then you think it’s Wayne Mac Veagh.
Yet it isn’t any of them; it’s the beginnings of
Depew. Now you wouldn’t believe Depew could
be devolved out of that; yet the minute it is finished
here you have him to the life, and you say, yourself,
“If that isn’t Depew it isn’t anybody.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Some would have painted him speaking, but he
isn’t always speaking, he has to stop and think
sometimes.</p>

<p class='c034'>That is a <em>genre</em> picture, as we say in the trade,
and differs from the encaustic and other schools in
various ways, mainly technical, which you wouldn’t
understand if I should explain them to you. But
you will get the idea as I go along, and little by
little you will learn all that is valuable about Art
without knowing how it happened, and without any
sense of strain or effort, and then you will know what
school a picture belongs to, just at a glance, and
whether it is an animal picture or a landscape. It
is then that the joy of life will begin for you.</p>

<p class='c034'>When you come to examine my portraits of Mr.
Joe Jefferson and the rest, your eye will have become
measurably educated by that time, and you will
recognize at once that no two of them are alike. I
will close the present chapter with an example of the
nude, for your instruction.</p>

<p class='c034'>This creation is different from any of the other
works. The others are from real life, but this is an
example of still-life; so called because it is a portrayal
of a fancy only, a thing which has no actual and active
existence. The purpose of a still-life picture is to
concrete to the eye the spiritual, the intangible, a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>something which we feel, but cannot see with the
fleshy vision--such as joy, sorrow, resentment, and
so on. This is best achieved by the employment of
that treatment which we call the impressionist, in
the trade. The present example is an impressionist
picture, done in distemper, with a chiaroscuro motif
modified by monochromatic technique, so as to secure
tenderness of feeling and spirituality of expression.
At a first glance it would seem to be a Botticelli, but
it is not that; it is only a humble imitation of that
great master of longness and slimness and limbfulness.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id008'>
<img src='images/i320.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>THAT THING IN THE RIGHT HAND IS NOT A SKILLET; IT IS A TAMBOURINE</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>The work is imagined from Greek story, and
represents Proserpine or Persepolis, or one of those
other Bacchantes doing the solemnities of welcome
before the altar of Isis upon the arrival of the annual
<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>shipload of Athenian youths in the island of Minos
to be sacrificed in appeasement of the Dordonian
Cyclops.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id008'>
<img src='images/i321.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>THE PORTRAIT REPRODUCES MR. JOSEPH JEFFERSON, THE COMMON FRIEND OF THE HUMAN RACE</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>The figure symbolizes solemn joy. It is severely
Greek, therefore does not call details of drapery or
other factitious helps to its aid, but depends wholly
upon grace of action and symmetry of contour for
its effects. It is intended to be viewed from the
south or southeast, and I think that that is best;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span>for while it expresses more and larger joy when viewed
from the east or the north, the features of the face
are too much foreshortened and wormy when viewed
from that point. That thing in the right hand is
not a skillet; it is a
tambourine.</p>

<div  class='figleft id009'>
<img src='images/i322.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>EITHER MR. HOWELLS OR MR. LAFFAN. I CANNOT TELL WHICH BECAUSE THE LABEL IS LOST</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>This creation will
be exhibited at the
Paris Salon in June,
and will compete for
the <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>Prix de Rome</i></span>.</p>

<p class='c034'>The above is a
marine picture, and
is intended to educate
the eye in the
important matters
of perspective and
foreshortening. The
mountainous and
bounding waves in
the foreground, contrasted
with the
tranquil ship fading
away as in a dream
the other side of the fishing-pole, convey to us the idea
of space and distance as no words could do. Such
is the miracle wrought by that wondrous device,
perspective.</p>

<p class='c034'>The portrait reproduces Mr. Joseph Jefferson, the
common friend of the human race. He is fishing,
and is not catching anything. This is finely expressed
by the moisture in the eye and the anguish of the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>mouth. The mouth is holding back words. The
pole is bamboo, the line is foreshortened. This foreshortening,
together with the smoothness of the
water away out there where the cork is, gives a
powerful impression of distance, and is another way
of achieving a perspective effect.</p>

<p class='c034'>We now come to the next portrait, which is
either Mr. Howells or Mr. Laffan. I cannot tell
which, because the label is lost. But it will do for
both, because the features are Mr. Howells’s, while
the expression is Mr. Laffan’s. This work will bear
critical examination.</p>

<p class='c034'>The next picture is part of an animal, but I do
not know the name of it. It is not finished. The
front end of it went around a corner before I could
get to it.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id006'>
<img src='images/i323.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>THE FRONT END OF IT WENT AROUND A CORNER BEFORE I COULD GET TO IT</p>
</div>
</div>

<div  class='figleft id009'>
<img src='images/i324.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>THE BEST AND MOST WINNING AND ELOQUENT PORTRAIT MY BRUSH HAS EVER PRODUCED</p>
</div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>We will conclude with the portrait of a lady in
the style of Raphael. Originally I started it out for
Queen Elizabeth, but was not able to do the lace
hopper her head projects out of, therefore I tried to
turn it into Pocahontas, but was again baffled, and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>was compelled to make further modifications, this
time achieving success. By spiritualizing it and
turning it into the noble mother of our race and
throwing into the countenance the sacred joy which
her first tailor-made outfit infuses into her spirit,
I was enabled to add to my gallery the best and
most winning and
eloquent portrait my
brush has ever produced.</p>

<p class='c034'>The most effective
encouragement a beginner
can have is
the encouragement
which he gets from
noting his own progress
with an alert
and persistent eye.
Save up your works
and date them; as
the years go by, run
your eye over them
from time to time,
and measure your
advancing stride.
This will thrill you,
this will nerve you, this will inspire you as nothing
else can.</p>

<p class='c034'>It has been my own course, and to it I owe the
most that I am to-day in Art. When I look back and
examine my first effort and then compare it with
my latest, it seems unbelievable that I have climbed
<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>so high in thirty-one years. Yet so it is. Practice--that
is the secret. From three to seven hours a day.
It is all that is required. The results are sure;
whereas indolence achieves nothing great.</p>

<div  class='figcenter id010'>
<img src='images/i325.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
<div class='ic003'>
<p>IT SEEMS UNBELIEVABLE THAT I HAVE CLIMBED SO HIGH IN THIRTY-ONE YEARS</p>
</div>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>SOLD TO SATAN <br /> <span class='small'>(1904)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>It was at this time that I concluded to sell my
soul to Satan. Steel was away down, so was
St. Paul; it was the same with all the desirable
stocks, in fact, and so, if I did not turn out to be
away down myself, now was my time to raise a stake
and make my fortune. Without further consideration
I sent word to the local agent, Mr. Blank, with
description and present condition of the property,
and an interview with Satan was promptly arranged,
on a basis of 2½ per cent, this commission payable
only in case a trade should be consummated.</p>

<p class='c034'>I sat in the dark, waiting and thinking. How still
it was! Then came the deep voice of a far-off bell
proclaiming midnight--Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m!
Boom-m-m!--and I rose to receive my guest, and
braced myself for the thunder crash and the brimstone
stench which should announce his arrival.
But there was no crash, no stench. Through the
closed door, and noiseless, came the modern Satan,
just as we see him on the stage--tall, slender, graceful,
in tights and trunks, a short cape mantling his
shoulders, a rapier at his side, a single drooping
feather in his jaunty cap, and on his intellectual
face the well-known and high-bred Mephistophelian
smile.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>But he was not a fire coal; he was not red, no!
On the contrary. He was a softly glowing, richly
smoldering torch, column, statue of pallid light,
faintly tinted with a spiritual green, and out from
him a lunar splendor flowed such as one sees glinting
from the crinkled waves of tropic seas when the
moon rides high in cloudless skies.</p>

<p class='c034'>He made his customary stage obeisance, resting
his left hand upon his sword hilt and removing his
cap with his right and making that handsome sweep
with it which we know so well; then we sat down.
Ah, he was an incandescent glory, a nebular dream,
and so much improved by his change of color. He
must have seen the admiration in my illuminated
face, but he took no notice of it, being long ago used
to it in faces of other Christians with whom he had
had trade relations.</p>

<p class='c034'>... A half hour of hot toddy and weather chat,
mixed with occasional tentative feelers on my part
and rejoinders of, “Well, I could hardly pay <em>that</em> for
it, you know,” on his, had much modified my shyness
and put me so much at my ease that I was
emboldened to feed my curiosity a little. So I
chanced the remark that he was surprisingly different
from the traditions, and I wished I knew what it was
he was made of. He was not offended, but answered
with frank simplicity:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Radium!”</p>

<p class='c034'>“That accounts for it!” I exclaimed. “It is the
loveliest effulgence I have ever seen. The hard and
heartless glare of the electric doesn’t compare with it.
I suppose Your Majesty weighs about--about----”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>“I stand six feet one; fleshed and blooded I would
weigh two hundred and fifteen; but radium, like
other metals, is heavy. I weigh nine hundred-odd.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I gazed hungrily upon him, saying to myself:</p>

<p class='c034'>“What riches! what a mine! Nine hundred
pounds at, say, $3,500,000 a pound, would be--would
be----” Then a treacherous thought burst
into my mind!</p>

<p class='c034'>He laughed a good hearty laugh, and said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I perceive your thought; and what a handsomely
original idea it is!--to kidnap Satan, and stock him,
and incorporate him, and water the stock up to ten
billions--just three times its actual value--and
blanket the world with it!” My blush had turned
the moonlight to a crimson mist, such as veils and
spectralizes the domes and towers of Florence at
sunset and makes the spectator drunk with joy to
see, and he pitied me, and dropped his tone of irony,
and assumed a grave and reflective one which had a
pleasanter sound for me, and under its kindly
influence my pains were presently healed, and I
thanked him for his courtesy. Then he said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“One good turn deserves another, and I will pay
you a compliment. Do you know I have been
trading with your poor pathetic race for ages, and
you are the first person who has ever been intelligent
enough to divine the large commercial value of my
make-up.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I purred to myself and looked as modest as I
could.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes, you are the first,” he continued. “All
through the Middle Ages I used to buy Christian
<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>souls at fancy rates, building bridges and cathedrals
in a single night in return, and getting swindled out
of my Christian nearly every time that I dealt with
a priest--as history will concede--but making it
up on the lay square-dealer now and then, as <em>I</em>
admit; but none of those people ever guessed where
the <em>real</em> big money lay. You are the first.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I refilled his glass and gave him another Cavour.
But he was experienced, by this time. He inspected
the cigar pensively awhile; then:</p>

<p class='c034'>“What do you pay for these?” he asked.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Two cents--but they come cheaper when you
take a barrel.”</p>

<p class='c034'>He went on inspecting; also mumbling comments,
apparently to himself:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Black--rough-skinned--rumpled, irregular,
wrinkled, barky, with crispy curled-up places on it--burnt-leather
aspect, like the shoes of the damned
that sit in pairs before the room doors at home of a
Sunday morning.” He sighed at thought of his
home, and was silent a moment; then he said,
gently, “Tell me about this projectile.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“It is the discovery of a great Italian statesman,”
I said. “Cavour. One day he lit his cigar, then
laid it down and went on writing and forgot it. It
lay in a pool of ink and got soaked. By and by he
noticed it and laid it on the stove to dry. When it
was dry he lit it and at once noticed that it didn’t
taste the same as it did before. And so----”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Did he say what it tasted like before?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“No, I think not. But he called the government
chemist and told him to find out the source of that
<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>new taste, and report. The chemist applied the
tests, and reported that the source was the presence
of sulphate of iron, touched up and spiritualized with
vinegar--the combination out of which one makes
ink. Cavour told him to introduce the brand in the
interest of the finances. So, ever since then this
brand passes through the ink factory, with the great
result that both the ink and the cigar suffer a sea
change into something new and strange. This is
history, Sire, not a work of the imagination.”</p>

<p class='c034'>So then he took up his present again, and touched
it to the forefinger of his other hand for an instant,
which made it break into flame and fragrance--but
he changed his mind at that point and laid the
torpedo down, saying, courteously:</p>

<p class='c034'>“With permission I will save it for Voltaire.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I was greatly pleased and flattered to be connected
in even this little way with that great man and be
mentioned to him, as no doubt would be the case,
so I hastened to fetch a bundle of fifty for distribution
among others of the renowned and lamented--Goethe,
and Homer, and Socrates, and Confucius,
and so on--but Satan said he had nothing against
those. Then he dropped back into reminiscences
of the old times once more, and presently said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“They knew nothing about radium, and it would
have had no value for them if they had known about
it. In twenty million years it has had no value for
your race until the revolutionizing steam-and-machinery
age was born--which was only a few
years before you were born yourself. It was a
stunning little century, for sure, that nineteenth!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>But it’s a poor thing compared to what the twentieth
is going to be.”</p>

<p class='c034'>By request, he explained why he thought so.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Because power was so costly, then, and everything
goes by power--the steamship, the locomotive,
and everything else. Coal, you see! You have to
have it; no steam and no electricity without it;
and it’s such a waste--for you burn it up, and it’s
gone! But radium--that’s another matter! With
my nine hundred pounds you could light the world,
and heat it, and run all its ships and machines and
railways a hundred million years, and not use up
five pounds of it in the whole time! And then----”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Quick--my soul is yours, dear Ancestor; take
it--we’ll start a company!”</p>

<p class='c034'>But he asked my age, which is sixty-eight, then
politely sidetracked the proposition, probably not
wishing to take advantage of himself. Then he went
on talking admiringly of radium, and how with its
own natural and inherent heat it could go on melting
its own weight of ice twenty-four times in twenty-four
hours, and keep it up forever without losing
bulk or weight; and how a pound of it, if exposed
in this room, would blast the place like a breath
from hell, and burn me to a crisp in a quarter of a
minute--and was going on like that, but I interrupted
and said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“But <em>you</em> are here, Majesty--nine hundred pounds--and
the temperature is balmy and pleasant. I don’t
understand.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well,” he said, hesitatingly, “it is a secret, but
I may as well reveal it, for these prying and impertinent
<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>chemists are going to find it out sometime or
other, anyway. Perhaps you have read what
Madame Curie says about radium; how she goes
searching among its splendid secrets and seizes upon
one after another of them and italicizes its specialty;
how she says ‘the compounds of radium are <em>spontaneously
luminous</em>’--require no coal in the production
of light, you see; how she says, ‘a glass vessel containing
radium <em>spontaneously charges itself with electricity</em>’--no
coal or water power required to generate
it, you see; how she says ‘radium possesses the
remarkable property of <em>liberating heat spontaneously
and continuously</em>’--no coal required to fire-up on the
world’s machinery, you see. She ransacks the pitch-blende
for its radioactive substances, and captures
three and labels them; one, which is embodied with
bismuth, she names polonium; one, which is embodied
with barium, she names radium; the name given to
the third was actinium. Now listen; she says ‘<em>the
question now was to separate the polonium from the
bismuth</em> ... this is the task that has occupied us
for years and has been a most difficult one.’ For
years, you see--for <em>years</em>. That is their way, those
plagues, those scientists--peg, peg, peg--dig, dig,
dig--plod, plod, plod. I wish I could catch a cargo
of them for my place; it would be an economy. Yes,
for years, you see. They never give up. Patience,
hope, faith, perseverance; it is the way of all the
breed. Columbus and the rest. In radium this
lady has added a new world to the planet’s possessions,
and matched--Columbus--and his peer. She
has set herself the task of divorcing polonium and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>bismuth; when she succeeds she will have done--what,
should you say?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Pray name it, Majesty.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“It’s another new world added--a gigantic one.
I will explain; for you would never divine the size
of it, and she herself does not suspect it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Do, Majesty, I beg of you.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Polonium, freed from bismuth and made independent,
is the one and only power that can control
radium, restrain its destructive forces, tame them,
reduce them to obedience, and make them do useful
and profitable work for your race. Examine my
skin. What do you think of it?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“It is delicate, silky, transparent, thin as a gelatine
film--exquisite, beautiful, Majesty!”</p>

<p class='c034'>“It is made of polonium. All the rest of me is
radium. If I should strip off my skin the world
would vanish away in a flash of flame and a puff of
smoke, and the remnants of the extinguished moon
would sift down through space a mere snow-shower
of gray ashes!”</p>

<p class='c034'>I made no comment, I only trembled.</p>

<p class='c034'>“You understand, now,” he continued. “I burn,
I suffer within, my pains are measureless and eternal,
but my skin protects you and the globe from harm.
Heat is power, energy, but is only useful to man when
he can control it and graduate its application to his
needs. You cannot do that with radium, now; it
will not be prodigiously useful to you until polonium
shall put the slave whip in your hand. I can release
from my body the radium force in any measure I
please, great or small; at my will I can set in motion
<span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>the works of a lady’s watch or destroy a world. You
saw me light that unholy cigar with my finger?”</p>

<p class='c034'>I remembered it.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Try to imagine how minute was the fraction of
energy released to do that small thing! You are
aware that everything is made up of restless and
revolving molecules?--everything--furniture, rocks,
water, iron, horses, men--everything that exists.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Molecules of scores of different sizes and weights,
but none of them big enough to be seen by help of
any microscope?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“And that each molecule is made up of thousands
of separate and never-resting little particles called
atoms?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“And that up to recent times the smallest atom
known to science was the hydrogen atom, which was
a thousand times smaller than the atom that went
to the building of any other molecule?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, the radium atom from the positive pole
is 5,000 times smaller than <em>that</em> atom! This unspeakably
minute atom is called an <em>electron</em>. Now then,
out of my long affection for you and for your lineage,
I will reveal to you a secret--a secret known to no
scientist as yet--the secret of the firefly’s light and
the glowworm’s; it is produced by a single electron
imprisoned in a polonium atom.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Sire, it is a wonderful thing, and the scientific
world would be grateful to know this secret, which
<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>has baffled and defeated all its searchings for more
than two centuries. To think!--a single electron,
5,000 times smaller than the invisible hydrogen
atom, to produce that explosion of vivid light which
makes the summer night so beautiful!”</p>

<p class='c034'>“And consider,” said Satan; “it is the only
instance in all nature where radium exists in a pure
state unencumbered by fettering alliances; where
polonium enjoys the like emancipation; and where
the pair are enabled to labor together in a gracious
and beneficent and effective partnership. Suppose
the protecting polonium envelope were removed; the
radium spark would flash but once and the firefly
would be consumed to vapor! Do you value this
old iron letterpress?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“No, Majesty, for it is not mine.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Then I will destroy it and let you see. I lit
the ostensible cigar with the heat energy of a single
electron, the equipment of a single lightning bug.
I will turn on twenty thousand electrons now.”</p>

<p class='c034'>He touched the massive thing and it exploded
with a cannon crash, leaving nothing but vacancy
where it had stood. For three minutes the air was
a dense pink fog of sparks, through which Satan
loomed dim and vague, then the place cleared and
his soft rich moonlight pervaded it again. He said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“You see? The radium in 20,000 lightning bugs
would run a racing-mobile forever. There’s no waste,
no diminution of it.” Then he remarked in a quite
casual way, “We use nothing but radium at home.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I was astonished. And interested, too, for I have
friends there, and relatives. I had always believed--in
<span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>accordance with my early teachings--that the
fuel was soft coal and brimstone. He noticed the
thought, and answered it.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Soft coal and brimstone is the tradition, yes, but
it is an error. We could use it; at least we could
make out with it after a fashion, but it has several
defects: it is not cleanly, it ordinarily makes but a
temperate fire, and it would be exceedingly difficult,
if even possible, to heat it up to standard, Sundays;
and as for the supply, all the worlds and systems
could not furnish enough to keep us going halfway
through eternity. Without radium there could be
no hell; certainly not a satisfactory one.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Why?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Because if we hadn’t radium we should have to
dress the souls in some other material; then, of
course, they would burn up and get out of trouble.
They would not last an hour. You know that?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Why--yes, now that you mention it. But I supposed
they were dressed in their natural flesh; they
look so in the pictures--in the Sistine Chapel and in
the illustrated books, you know.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes, our damned look as they looked in the
world, but it isn’t flesh; flesh could not survive any
longer than that copying press survived--it would
explode and turn to a fog of sparks, and the result
desired in sending it there would be defeated. Believe
me, radium is the only wear.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“I see it now,” I said, with prophetic discomfort,
“I know that you are right, Majesty.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“I am. I speak from experience. You shall see,
when you get there.”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>He said this as if he thought I was eaten up with
curiosity, but it was because he did not know me.
He sat reflecting a minute, then he said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I will make your fortune.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It cheered me up and I felt better. I thanked
him and was all eagerness and attention.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Do you know,” he continued, “where they find
the bones of the extinct moa, in New Zealand? All
in a pile--thousands and thousands of them banked
together in a mass twenty feet deep. And do you
know where they find the tusks of the extinct mastodon
of the Pleistocene? Banked together in acres
off the mouth of the Lena--an ivory mine which has
furnished freight for Chinese caravans for five hundred
years. Do you know the phosphate beds of
our South? They are miles in extent, a limitless
mass and jumble of bones of vast animals whose
like exists no longer in the earth--a cemetery, a
mighty cemetery, that is what it is. All over the
earth there are such cemeteries. Whence came the
instinct that made those families of creatures go to
a chosen and particular spot to die when sickness
came upon them and they perceived that their end
was near? It is a mystery; not even science has
been able to uncover the secret of it. But there
stands the fact. Listen, then. For a million years
there has been a firefly cemetery.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Hopefully, appealingly, I opened my mouth--he
motioned me to close it, and went on:</p>

<p class='c034'>“It is in a scooped-out bowl half as big as this
room on the top of a snow summit of the Cordilleras.
That bowl is level full--of what? Pure firefly
<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>radium and the glow and heat of hell? For
countless ages myriads of fireflies have daily flown
thither and died in that bowl and been burned to
vapor in an instant, each fly leaving as its contribution
its only indestructible particle, its single electron
of pure radium. There is energy enough there to
light the whole world, heat the whole world’s machinery,
supply the whole world’s transportation power
from now till the end of eternity. The massed
riches of the planet could not furnish its value in
money. You are mine, it is yours; when Madame
Curie isolates polonium, clothe yourself in a skin of
it and go and take possession!”</p>

<p class='c034'>Then he vanished and left me in the dark when
I was just in the act of thanking him. I can find
the bowl by the light it will cast upon the sky; I
can get the polonium presently, when that illustrious
lady in France isolates it from the bismuth. Stock
is for sale. Apply to Mark Twain.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THAT DAY IN EDEN <br /> <span class='small'>(Passage from Satan’s Diary)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>Long ago I was in the bushes near the Tree of
Knowledge when the Man and the Woman
came there and had a conversation. I was present,
now, when they came again after all these years.
They were as before--mere boy and girl--trim,
rounded, slender, flexible, snow images lightly
flushed with the pink of the skies, innocently unconscious
of their nakedness, lovely to look upon,
beautiful beyond words.</p>

<p class='c034'>I listened again. Again as in that former time
they puzzled over those words, Good, Evil, Death,
and tried to reason out their meaning; but, of course,
they were not able to do it. Adam said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Come, maybe we can find Satan. He might
know these things.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Then I came forth, still gazing upon Eve and
admiring, and said to her:</p>

<p class='c034'>“You have not seen me before, sweet creature,
but I have seen you. I have seen all the animals,
but in beauty none of them equals you. Your hair,
your eyes, your face, your flesh tints, your form, the
tapering grace of your white limbs--all are beautiful,
adorable, perfect.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It gave her pleasure, and she looked herself over,
putting out a foot and a hand and admiring them;
then she naïvely said:</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>“It is a joy to be so beautiful. And Adam--he is
the same.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She turned him about, this way and that, to show
him off, with such guileless pride in her blue eyes,
and he--he took it all as just matter of course, and
was innocently happy in it, and said, “When I have
flowers on my head it is better still.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Eve said, “It is true--you shall see,” and she
flitted hither and thither like a butterfly and plucked
flowers, and in a moment laced their stems together
in a glowing wreath and set it upon his head; then
tiptoed and gave it a pat here and there with her
nimble fingers, with each pat enhancing its grace
and shape, none knows how, nor why it should so
result, but in it there is a law somewhere, though
the delicate art and mystery of it is her secret alone,
and not learnable by another; and when at last it
was to her mind she clapped her hands for pleasure,
then reached up and kissed him--as pretty a sight,
taken altogether, as in my experience I have seen.</p>

<p class='c034'>Presently, to the matter in hand. The meaning
of those words--would I tell her?</p>

<p class='c034'>Certainly none could be more willing, but how
was I to do it? I could think of no way to make her
understand, and I said so. I said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I will try, but it is hardly of use. For instance--what
is pain?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Pain? I do not know.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Certainly. How should you? Pain is not of
your world; pain is impossible to you; you have
never experienced a physical pain. Reduce that to
a formula, a principle, and what have we?”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>“What have we?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“This: Things which are outside of our orbit--our
own particular world--things which by our constitution
and equipment we are unable to see, or
feel, or otherwise experience--<em>cannot be made comprehensible
to us in words</em>. There you have the whole
thing in a nutshell. It is a principle, it is axiomatic,
it is a law. Now do you understand?”</p>

<p class='c034'>The gentle creature looked dazed, and for all
result she was delivered of this vacant remark:</p>

<p class='c034'>“What is axiomatic?”</p>

<p class='c034'>She had missed the point. Necessarily she would.
Yet her effort was success for me, for it was a vivid
confirmation of the truth of what I had been saying.
Axiomatic was for the present a thing outside of the
world of her experience, therefore it had no meaning
for her. I ignored her question and continued:</p>

<p class='c034'>“What is fear?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Fear? I do not know.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Naturally. Why should you? You have not
felt it, you cannot feel it, it does not belong in your
world. With a hundred thousand words I should
not be able to make you understand what fear is.
How then am I to explain death to you? You have
never seen it, it is foreign to your world, it is impossible
to make the word mean anything to you, so
far as I can see. In a way, it is a sleep----”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, I know what that is!”</p>

<p class='c034'>“But it is a sleep only in a way, as I said. It is
more than a sleep.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Sleep is pleasant, sleep is lovely!”</p>

<p class='c034'>“But death is a long sleep--very long.”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>“Oh, all the lovelier! Therefore I think nothing
could be better than death.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I said to myself, “Poor child, some day you may
know what a pathetic truth you have spoken; some
day you may say, out of a broken heart, ‘Come to
me, O Death the compassionate! steep me in the
merciful oblivion, O refuge of the sorrowful, friend
of the forsaken and the desolate!’” Then I said
aloud, “But this sleep is eternal.”</p>

<p class='c034'>The word went over her head. Necessarily it
would.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Eternal. What is eternal?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Ah, that also is outside of your world, as yet.
There is no way to make you understand it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It was a hopeless case. Words referring to things
outside of her experience were a foreign language to
her, and meaningless. She was like a little baby
whose mother says to it, “Don’t put your finger in
the candle flame; it will burn you.” Burn--it is a
foreign word to the baby, and will have no terrors
for it until experience shall have revealed its meaning.
It is not worth while for mamma to make the remark,
the baby will goo-goo cheerfully, and put its finger
in the pretty flame--once. After these private reflections
I said again that I did not think there was any
way to make her understand the meaning of the
word eternal. She was silent awhile, turning these
deep matters over in the unworn machinery of her
mind; then she gave up the puzzle and shifted her
ground, saying:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, there are those other words. What is
good, and what is evil?”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>“It is another difficulty. They, again, are outside
of your world; they have place in the moral
kingdom only. You have no morals.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What are morals?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“A system of law which distinguishes between right
and wrong, good morals and bad. These things do
not exist for you. I cannot make it clear; you would
not understand.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“But try.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, obedience to constituted authority is a
moral law. Suppose Adam should forbid you to put
your child in the river and leave it there overnight--would
you put the child there?”</p>

<p class='c034'>She answered with a darling simplicity and
guilelessness:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Why, yes, if I wanted to.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“There, it is just as I said--you would not know
any better; you have no idea of duty, command,
obedience; they have no meaning for you. In your
present estate you are in no possible way responsible
for anything you do or say or think. It is impossible
for you to do wrong, for you have no more notion
of right and wrong than the other animals have.
You and they can do only right; whatever you and
they do is right and innocent. It is a divine estate,
the loftiest and purest attainable in heaven and in
earth. It is the angel gift. The angels are wholly
pure and sinless, for they do not know right from
wrong, and all the acts of such are blameless. No
one can do wrong without knowing how to distinguish
between right and wrong.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Is it an advantage to know?”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>“Most certainly not! That knowledge would
remove all that is divine, all that is angelic, from
the angels, and immeasurably degrade them.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Are there any persons that know right from
wrong?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Not in--well, not in heaven.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What gives that knowledge?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“The Moral Sense.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What is that?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well--no matter. Be thankful that you lack it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Why?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Because it is a degradation, a disaster. Without
it one cannot do wrong; with it, one can. Therefore
it has but one office, only one--to teach how to do
wrong. It can teach no other thing--no other
thing whatever. It is the <em>creator</em> of wrong; wrong
cannot exist until the Moral Sense brings it into
being.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“How can one acquire the Moral Sense?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“By eating of the fruit of the Tree, here. But
why do you wish to know? Would you like to have
the Moral Sense?”</p>

<p class='c034'>She turned wistfully to Adam:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Would you like to have it?”</p>

<p class='c034'>He showed no particular interest, and only said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I am indifferent. I have not understood any of
this talk, but if you like we will eat it, for I cannot
see that there is any objection to it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Poor ignorant things, the command of refrain had
meant nothing to them, they were but children, and
could not understand untried things and verbal
abstractions which stood for matters outside of their
<span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>little world and their narrow experience. Eve
reached for an apple!--oh, farewell, Eden and your
sinless joys, come poverty and pain, hunger and
cold and heartbreak, bereavement, tears and shame,
envy, strife, malice and dishonor, age, weariness,
remorse; then desperation and the prayer for the
release of death, indifferent that the gates of hell
yawn beyond it!</p>

<p class='c034'>She tasted--the fruit fell from her hand.</p>

<p class='c034'>It was pitiful. She was like one who wakens slow
and confusedly out of a sleep. She gazed half
vacantly at me, then at Adam, holding her curtaining
fleece of golden hair back with her hand; then
her wandering glance fell upon her naked person.
The red blood mounted to her cheek, and she sprang
behind a bush and stood there crying, and saying:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, my modesty is lost to me--my unoffending
form is become a shame to me!” She moaned and
muttered in her pain, and dropped her head, saying,
“I am degraded--I have fallen, oh, so low, and I
shall never rise again.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Adam’s eyes were fixed upon her in a dreamy
amazement, for he could not understand what had
happened, it being outside his world as yet, and her
words having no meaning for one void of the Moral
Sense. And now his wonder grew: for, unknown
to Eve, her hundred years rose upon her, and faded
the heaven of her eyes and the tints of her young
flesh, and touched her hair with gray, and traced
faint sprays of wrinkles about her mouth and eyes,
and shrunk her form, and dulled the satin luster of
her skin.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>All this the fair boy saw: then loyally and bravely
he took the apple and tasted it, saying nothing.</p>

<p class='c034'>The change came upon him also. Then he gathered
boughs for both and clothed their nakedness, and
they turned and went their way, hand in hand and
bent with age, and so passed from sight.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>EVE SPEAKS</h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c035'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c036'>They drove us from the Garden with their swords
of flame, the fierce cherubim. And what had we
done? We meant no harm. We were ignorant, and
did as any other children might do. We could not
know it was wrong to disobey the command, for
the words were strange to us and we did not understand
them. We did not know right from wrong--how
should we know? We could not, without the
Moral Sense; it was not possible. If we had been
given the Moral Sense first--ah, that would have
been fairer, that would have been kinder; then we
should be to blame if we disobeyed. But to say to
us poor ignorant children words which we could not
understand, and then punish us because we did not
do as we were told--ah, how can that be justified?
We knew no more then than this littlest child of
mine knows now, with its four years--oh, not so
much, I think. Would I say to it, “If thou touchest
this bread I will overwhelm thee with unimaginable
disaster, even to the dissolution of thy corporeal
elements,” and when it took the bread and smiled
up in my face, thinking no harm, as not understanding
those strange words, would I take advantage of
its innocence and strike it down with the mother
hand it trusted? Whoso knoweth the mother heart,
let him judge if it would do that thing. Adam says
<span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>my brain is turned by my troubles and that I am
become wicked. I am as I am; I did not make
myself.</p>

<p class='c034'>They drove us out. Drove us out into this harsh
wilderness, and shut the gates against us. We that
had meant no harm. It is three months. We were
ignorant then; we are rich in learning, now--ah,
how rich! We know hunger, thirst, and cold; we
know pain, disease, and grief; we know hate, rebellion,
and deceit; we know remorse, the conscience
that prosecutes guilt and innocence alike, making
no distinction; we know weariness of body and spirit,
the unrefreshing sleep, the rest which rests not, the
dreams which restore Eden, and banish it again with
the waking; we know misery; we know torture and
the heartbreak; we know humiliation and insult;
we know indecency, immodesty, and the soiled
mind; we know the scorn that attaches to the transmitted
image of God exposed unclothed to the day;
we know fear; we know vanity, folly, envy, hypocrisy;
we know irreverence; we know blasphemy;
we know right from wrong, and how to avoid the
one and do the other; we know all the rich product
of the Moral Sense, and it is our possession. Would
we could sell it for one hour of Eden and white
purity; would we could degrade the animals with it!</p>

<p class='c034'>We have it all--that treasure. All but death.
Death.... Death. What may that be?</p>

<p class='c034'>Adam comes.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“He still sleeps.”</p>

<p class='c034'>That is our second-born--our Abel.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>“He has slept enough for his good, and his garden
suffers for his care. Wake him.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“I have tried and cannot.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Then he is very tired. Let him sleep on.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“I think it is his hurt that makes him sleep so
long.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I answer: “It may be so. Then we will let him
rest; no doubt the sleep is healing it.”</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>It is a day and a night, now, that he has slept.
We found him by his altar in his field, that morning,
his face and body drenched in blood. He said his
eldest brother struck him down. Then he spoke no
more and fell asleep. We laid him in his bed and
washed the blood away, and were glad to know the
hurt was light and that he had no pain; for if he
had had pain he would not have slept.</p>

<p class='c034'>It was in the early morning that we found him.
All day he slept that sweet, reposeful sleep, lying
always on his back, and never moving, never turning.
It showed how tired he was, poor thing. He is
so good and works so hard, rising with the dawn and
laboring till the dark. And now he is overworked;
it will be best that he tax himself less, after this, and
I will ask him; he will do anything I wish.</p>

<p class='c034'>All the day he slept. I know, for I was always
near, and made dishes for him and kept them warm
against his waking. Often I crept in and fed my
eyes upon his gentle face, and was thankful for that
blessed sleep. And still he slept on--slept with his
<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>eyes wide; a strange thing, and made me think he
was awake at first, but it was not so, for I spoke
and he did not answer. He always answers when I
speak. Cain has moods and will not answer, but
not Abel.</p>

<p class='c034'>I have sat by him all the night, being afraid he
might wake and want his food. His face was very
white; and it changed, and he came to look as he
had looked when he was a little child in Eden long
ago, so sweet and good and dear. It carried me back
over the abyss of years, and I was lost in dreams and
tears--oh, hours, I think. Then I came to myself;
and thinking he stirred, I kissed his cheek to wake
him, but he slumbered on and I was disappointed.
His cheek was cold. I brought sacks of wool and the
down of birds and covered him, but he was still
cold, and I brought more. Adam has come again,
and says he is not yet warm. I do not understand it.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>III</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>We cannot wake him! With my arms clinging
about him I have looked into his eyes, through the
veil of my tears, and begged for one little word,
and he will not answer. Oh, is it that long sleep--is
it death? And will he wake no more?</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>FROM SATAN’S DIARY</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>Death has entered the world, the creatures are
perishing; one of The Family is fallen; the product
of the Moral Sense is complete. The Family think
ill of death--they will change their minds.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>SAMUEL ERASMUS MOFFETT <br /> <span class='small'>AUGUST 16, 1908</span></h2>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c035'>
    <div>HIS CHARACTER AND HIS DEATH</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c036'><i>August 16th.</i>--Early in the evening of the first
day of this month the telephone brought us a
paralyzing shock: my nephew, Samuel E. Moffett,
was drowned. It was while sea bathing. The seas
were running high and he was urged not to venture
out, but he was a strong swimmer and not afraid.
He made the plunge with confidence, his frightened
little son looking on. Instantly he was helpless.
The great waves tossed him hither and thither, they
buried him, they struck the life out of him. In a
minute it was all over.</p>

<p class='c034'>He was forty-eight years old, he was at his best,
physically and mentally, and was well on his way
toward earned distinction. He was large-minded
and large-hearted, there was no blot nor fleck upon
his character, his ideals were high and clean, and
by native impulse and without effort he lived up to
them.</p>

<p class='c034'>He had been a working journalist, an editorial
writer, for nearly thirty years, and yet in that exposed
position had preserved his independence in full
strength and his principles undecayed. Several
years ago he accepted a high place on the staff of
<cite>Collier’s Weekly</cite> and was occupying it when he died.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>In an early chapter of my <cite>Autobiography</cite>, written
three years ago, I have told how he wrote from San
Francisco, when he was a stripling and asked me to
help him get a berth on a daily paper there; and
how he submitted to the severe conditions I imposed,
and got the berth and kept it sixteen years.</p>

<p class='c034'>As child and lad his health was delicate, capricious,
insecure, and his eyesight affected by a malady which
debarred him from book study and from reading.
This was a bitter hardship for him, for he had a
wonderful memory and a sharp hunger for knowledge.
School was not for him, yet while still a little boy he
acquired an education, and a good one. He managed
it after a method of his own devising: he got permission
to listen while the classes of the normal
school recited their abstruse lessons and black-boarded
their mathematics. By questioning the
little chap it was found that he was keeping up
with the star scholars of the school.</p>

<p class='c034'>In those days he paid us a visit in Hartford. It
was when he was about twelve years old. I was
laboriously constructing an ancient-history game at
the time, to be played by my wife and myself, and
I was digging the dates and facts for it out of
cyclopædias, a dreary and troublesome business. I
had sweated blood over that work and was pardonably
proud of the result, as far as I had gone. I
showed the child my mass of notes, and he was at
once as excited as I should have been over a Sunday-school
picnic at his age. He wanted to help, he
was eager to help, and I was as willing to let him
as I should have been to give away an interest in a
<span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>surgical operation that I was getting tired of. I
made him free of the cyclopædias, but he never consulted
them--he had their contents in his head. All
alone he built and completed the game rapidly and
without effort.</p>

<p class='c034'>Away back in ’80 or ’81 when the grand eruption
of Krakatoa, in the Straits of Sunda, occurred, the
news reached San Francisco late in the night--too
late for editors to hunt for information about that
unknown volcano in cyclopædias and write it up
exhaustively and learnedly in time for the first edition.
The managing editor said, “Send to Moffett’s
home; rout him out and fetch him; he will know
all about it; he won’t need the cyclopædia.” Which
was true. He came to the office and swiftly wrote
it all up without having to refer to books.</p>

<p class='c034'>I will take a few paragraphs from the article about
him in <cite>Collier’s Weekly</cite>:</p>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c034'>If you wanted to know any fact about any subject it was
quicker to go to him than to books of reference. His good
nature made him the martyr of interruptions. In the middle
of a sentence, in a hurry hour, he would look up happily, and
whether the thing you wanted was railroad statistics or international
law, he would bring it out of one of the pigeonholes in
his brain. A born dispenser of the light, he made the giving of
information a privilege and a pleasure on all occasions.</p>

<p class='c034'>This cyclopædic faculty was marvelous because it was only
a small part of his equipment which became invaluable in
association with other gifts. A student and a humanist, he
delighted equally in books and in watching all the workings of
a political convention.</p>

<p class='c034'>For any one of the learned professions he had conspicuous
ability. He chose that which, in the cloister of the editorial
rooms, makes fame for others. Any judge or Cabinet Minister
of our time may well be proud of a career of such usefulness
<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>as his. Men with such a quality of mind as Moffett’s are
rare.</p>

<p class='c034'>Anyone who discussed with him the things he advocated
stood a little awed to discover that here was a man who had
carefully thought out what would be best for all the people in
the world two or three generations hence, and guided his work
according to that standard. This was the one broad subject
that covered all his interests; in detail they included the movement
for universal peace about which he wrote repeatedly; so
small a thing as a plan to place flowers on the window sills and
fire escapes of New York tenement houses enlisted not only the
advocacy of his pen, but his direct personal presence and
co-operation; again and again, in his department in this paper,
he gave indorsement and aid to similar movements, whether
broad or narrow in their scope--the saving of the American
forests, fighting tuberculosis, providing free meals for poor
school children in New York, old-age pensions, safety appliances
for protecting factory employees, the beautifying of American
cities, the creation of inland waterways, industrial peace.</p>

</div>

<p class='c034'>He leaves behind him wife, daughter, and son--inconsolable
mourners. The son is thirteen, a beautiful
human creature, with the broad and square face
of his father and his grandfather, a face in which
one reads high character and intelligence. This boy
will be distinguished, by and by, I think.</p>

<p class='c034'>In closing this slight sketch of Samuel E. Moffett
I wish to dwell with lingering and especial emphasis
upon the dignity of his character and ideals. In an
age when we would rather have money than health,
and would rather have another man’s money than
our own, he lived and died unsordid; in a day when
the surest road to national greatness and admiration
is by showy and rotten demagoguery in politics and
by giant crimes in finance, he lived and died a
gentleman.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE NEW PLANET</h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c037'>(The astronomers at Harvard have observed “perturbations
in the orbital movement of Neptune,” such as might be caused
by the presence of a new planet in the vicinity.)</p>

</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_0_0_4 c033'>I believe in the new planet. I was eleven
years old in 1846, when Leverrier and Adams
and Mary Somerville discovered Neptune through
the disturbance and discomfort it was causing
Uranus. “Perturbations,” they call that kind of
disturbance. I had been having those perturbations
myself, for more than two months; in fact, all
through watermelon time, for they used to keep
dogs in some of the patches in those days. You
notice that these recent perturbations are considered
remarkable because they perturbate through three
seconds of arc, but really that is nothing: often I
used to perturbate through as much as half an hour
if it was a dog that was attending to the perturbating.
There isn’t any Neptune that can outperturbate
a dog; and I know, because I am not speaking
from hearsay. Why, if there was a planet two
hundred and fifty thousand “light-years” the other
side of Neptune’s orbit, Professor Pickering would
discover it in a minute if it could perturbate equal
to a dog. Give me a dog every time, when it comes
to perturbating. You let a dog jump out at you all
of a sudden in the dark of the moon, and you will
<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>see what a small thing three seconds of arc is: the
shudder that goes through you then would open the
seams of Noah’s Ark itself, from figurehead to rudder
post, and you would drop that melon the same as if
you had never had any but just a casual interest in
it. I know about these things, because this is not
tradition I am writing, but history.</p>

<p class='c034'>Now then, notice this. About the end of August,
1846, a change came over me and I resolved to lead
a better life, so I reformed; but it was just as well,
anyway, because they had got to having guns and
dogs both. Although I was reformed, the perturbations
did not stop! Does that strike you? They
did not stop, they went right on and on and on, for
three weeks, clear up to the 23d of September; then
Neptune was discovered and the whole mystery
stood explained. It shows that I am so sensitively
constructed that I perturbate when any other planet
is disturbed. This has been going on all my life.
It only happens in the watermelon season, but that
has nothing to do with it, and has no significance:
geologists and anthropologists and horticulturists all
tell me it is only ancestral and hereditary, and that
is what I think myself. Now then, I got to perturbating
again, this summer--all summer through; all
through watermelon time: and <em>where</em>, do you think?
Up here on my farm in Connecticut. Is that significant?
Unquestionably it is, for you couldn’t raise
a watermelon on this farm with a derrick.</p>

<p class='c034'>That perturbating was caused by the new planet.
That Washington Observatory may throw as much
doubt as it wants to, it cannot affect me, because I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>know there <em>is</em> a new planet. I know it because I
don’t perturbate for nothing. There has got to be a
dog or a planet, one or the other; and there isn’t
any dog around here, so there’s <em>got</em> to be a planet.
I hope it is going to be named after me; I should
just love it if I can’t have a constellation.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>MARJORIE FLEMING, THE WONDER <br />CHILD</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>Marjorie has been in her tiny grave a
hundred years; and still the tears fall for
her, and will fall. What an intensely human little
creature she was! How vividly she lived her small
life; how impulsive she was; how sudden, how
tempestuous, how tender, how loving, how sweet,
how loyal, how rebellious, how repentant, how wise,
how unwise, how bursting with fun, how frank, how
free, how honest, how innocently bad, how natively
good, how charged with quaint philosophies, how
winning, how precious, how adorable--and how perennially
and indestructibly interesting! And all this
exhibited, proved, and recorded before she reached
the end of her ninth year and “fell on sleep.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Geographically considered, the lassie was a Scot;
but in fact she had no frontiers, she was the world’s
child, she was the human race in little. It is one of
the prides of my life that the first time I ever heard
her name it came from the lips of Dr. John Brown--his
very own self--Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh--Dr.
John Brown of <cite>Rab and His Friends</cite>--Dr. John
Brown of the beautiful face and the sweet spirit,
whose friends loved him with a love that was worship--Dr.
John Brown, who was Marjorie’s biographer,
and who had clasped an aged hand that had
<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>caressed Marjorie’s fifty years before, thus linking
me with that precious child by an unbroken chain
of handshakes, for I had shaken hands with Dr.
John. This was in Edinburgh thirty-six years ago.
He gave my wife his little biography of Marjorie,
and I have it yet.</p>

<p class='c034'>Is Marjorie known in America? No--at least to
only a few. When Mr. L. MacBean’s new and
enlarged and charming biography<a id='r17' /><a href='#f17' class='c022'><sup>[17]</sup></a> of her was published
five years ago it was sent over here in sheets,
the market not being large enough to justify recomposing
and reprinting it on our side of the water.
I find that there are even cultivated Scotchmen
among us who have not heard of Marjorie Fleming.</p>

<p class='c034'>She was born in Kirkcaldy in 1803, and she died
when she was eight years and eleven months old.
By the time she was five years old she was become
a devourer of various kinds of literature--both
heavy and light--and was also become a quaint
and free-spoken and charming little thinker and
philosopher whose views were a delightful jumble
of first-hand cloth of gold and second-hand rags.</p>

<p class='c034'>When she was six she opened up that rich mine,
her journals, and continued to work it by spells
during the remainder of her brief life. She was a
pet of Walter Scott, from the cradle, and when he
could have her society for a few hours he was content,
and required no other. Her little head was full
of noble passages from Shakespeare and other favorites
<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>of hers, and the fact that she could deliver them
with moving effect is proof that her elocution was a
born gift with her, and not a mechanical reproduction
of somebody else’s art, for a child’s parrot-work
does not move. When she was a little creature of
seven years, Sir Walter Scott “would read ballads
to her in his own glorious way, the two getting wild
with excitement over them; and he would take her
on his knee and make her repeat Constance’s speeches
in <cite>King John</cite> till he swayed to and fro, sobbing his
fill.” [Dr. John Brown.]</p>

<p class='c034'>“<em>Sobbing his fill</em>”--that great man--over that little
thing’s inspired interpretations. It is a striking picture;
there is no mate to it. Sir Walter said of her:</p>

<p class='c034'>“She’s the most extraordinary creature I ever met
with, and her repeating of Shakespeare overpowers
me as nothing else does.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She spent the whole of her little life in a Presbyterian
heaven; yet she was not affected by it; she
could not have been happier if she had been in the
other heaven.</p>

<p class='c034'>She was made out of thunderstorms and sunshine,
and not even her little perfunctory pieties and shop-made
holiness could squelch her spirits or put out
her fires for long. Under pressure of a pestering
sense of duty she heaves a shovelful of trade godliness
into her journals every little while, but it does
not offend, for none of it is her own; it is all borrowed,
it is a convention, a custom of her environment,
it is the most innocent of hypocrisies, and
this tainted butter of hers soon gets to be as delicious
to the reader as are the stunning and worldly sincerities
<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>she splatters around it every time her pen
takes a fresh breath. The adorable child! she hasn’t
a discoverable blemish in her make-up anywhere.</p>

<p class='c034'>Marjorie’s first letter was written before she was
six years old; it was to her cousin, Isa Keith, a young
lady of whom she was passionately fond. It was
done in a sprawling hand, ten words to the page--and
in those foolscap days a page was a spacious thing:</p>

<p class='c038'>“<span class='sc'>My Dear Isa</span>--</p>

<p class='c034'>“I now sit down on my botom to answer all the
kind &amp; beloved letters which you was so so good as
to write to me. This is the first time I ever wrote
a letter in my life.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Miss Potune, a lady of my acquaintance, praises
me dreadfully. I repeated something out of Deen
Swift &amp; she said I was fit for the stage, &amp; you may
think I was primmed up with majestick Pride, but
upon my word I felt myself turn a little birsay--birsay
is a word which is a word that William composed
which is as you may suppose a little enraged.
This horid fat Simpliton says that my Aunt is beautifull
which is intirely impossible for that is not her
nature.”</p>

<p class='c039'>Frank? Yes, Marjorie was that. And during the
brief moment that she enchanted this dull earth with
her presence she was the bewitchingest speller and
punctuator in all Christendom.</p>

<p class='c034'>The average child of six “prints” its correspondence
in rickety and reeling Roman capitals, or
dictates to mamma, who puts the little chap’s message
<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>on paper. The sentences are labored, repetitious,
and slow; there are but three or four of them;
they deal in information solely, they contain no
ideas, they venture no judgments, no opinions; they
inform papa that the cat has had kittens again;
that Mary has a new doll that can wink; that
Tommy has lost his top; and will papa come soon
and bring the writer something nice? But with
Marjorie it is different.</p>

<p class='c034'>She needs no amanuensis, she puts her message
on paper herself; and not in weak and tottering
Roman capitals, but in a thundering hand that can
be heard a mile and be read across the square
without glasses. And she doesn’t have to study,
and puzzle, and search her head for something to
say; no, she had only to connect the pen with the
paper and turn on the current; the words spring
forth at once, and go chasing after each other like
leaves dancing down a stream. For she has a faculty,
has Marjorie! Indeed yes; when she sits down on
her bottom to do a letter, there isn’t going to be any
lack of materials, nor of fluency, and neither is her
letter going to be wanting in pepper, or vinegar, or
vitriol, or any of the other condiments employed
by genius to save a literary work of art from flatness
and vapidity. And as for judgments and opinions,
they are as commodiously in her line as they are in
the Lord Chief Justice’s. They have weight, too,
and are convincing: for instance, for thirty-six years
they have damaged that “horid Simpliton” in my eyes;
and, more than that, they have even imposed upon
me--and most unfairly and unwarrantably--an aversion
<span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>to the horid fat Simpliton’s name; a perfectly
innocent name, and yet, because of the prejudice
against it with which this child has poisoned my
mind for a generation I cannot see “Potune” on
paper and keep my gorge from rising.</p>

<p class='c034'>In her journals Marjorie changes her subject
whenever she wants to--and that is pretty often.
When the deep moralities pay her a passing visit
she registers them. Meantime if a cherished love
passage drifts across her memory she shoves it into
the midst of the moralities--it is nothing to her that
it may not feel at home there:</p>

<p class='c034'>“We should not be happy at the death of our fellow
creatures, for they love life like us love your
neighbor &amp; he will love you Bountifulness and
Mercifulness are always rewarded. In my travels
I met with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour
Esge [Esqr.] and from him I got offers of marage--ofers
of marage did I say? nay plainly [he] loved me.
Goodness does not belong to the wicked but badness
dishonor befals wickedness but not virtue, no disgrace
befals virtue perciverence overcomes almost
al difficulties no I am rong in saying almost I should
say always as it is so perciverence is a virtue my Csosin
says pacience is a cristain virtue, which is true.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She is not copying these profundities out of a book,
she is getting them out of her memory; her spelling
shows that the book is not before her. The easy
and effortless flow of her talk is a marvelous thing
in a baby of her age. Her interests are as wide and
varied as a grown person’s: she discusses all sorts
of books, and fearlessly delivers judgment upon them;
<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>she examines whomsoever crosses the field of her
vision, and again delivers a verdict; she dips into
religion and history, and even into politics; she
takes a shy at the news of the day, and comments
upon it; and now and then she drops into poetry--into
rhyme, at any rate.</p>

<p class='c034'>Marjorie would not intentionally mislead anyone,
but she has just been making a remark which moves
me to hoist a danger-signal for the protection of the
modern reader. It is this one: “<em>In my travels.</em>”
Naturally we are apt to clothe a word with its
present-day meaning--the meaning we are used to,
the meaning we are familiar with; and so--well,
you get the idea: some words that are giants to-day
were very small dwarfs a century ago, and if we are
not careful to take that vast enlargement into account
when we run across them in the literatures of the
past, they are apt to convey to us a distinctly wrong
impression. To-day, when a person says “<em>in my
travels</em>” he means that he has been around the globe
nineteen or twenty times, and we so understand him;
and so, when Marjorie says it, it startles us for a
moment, for it gives us the impression that <em>she</em> has
been around it fourteen or fifteen times; whereas,
such is not at all the case. She has traveled prodigiously
for <em>her</em> day, but not for ours. She had
“traveled,” altogether, three miles by land and eight
by water--per ferryboat. She is fairly and justly
proud of it, for it is the exact equivalent, in grandeur
and impressiveness, in the case of a child of our day,
to two trips across the Atlantic and a thousand miles
by rail.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>“In the love novels all the heroins are very desperate
Isabella will not allow me to speak about
lovers and heroins, and tiss too refined for my taste
a loadstone is a curous thing indeed it is true Heroic
love doth never win disgrace this is my maxum and
I will follow it forever Miss Eguards [Edgeworth]
tails are very good particularly some that are very
much adopted for youth as Lazy Lawrence Tarelton
False Key &amp;c &amp;c Persons of the parlement house
are as I think caled Advocakes Mr Cay &amp; Mr Crakey
has that honour. This has been a very mild winter.
Mr Banestors Budget is to-night I hope it will be a
good one. A great many authors have expressed
themselfs too sentimentaly.... The Mercandile
Afares are in a perilous situation sickness &amp; a
delicante frame I have not &amp; I do not know what
it is, but Ah me perhaps I shall have it.<a id='r18' /><a href='#f18' class='c022'><sup>[18]</sup></a> Grandure
reigns in Edinburgh.... Tomson is a beautifull
author and Pope but nothing is like Shakepear of
which I have a little knolegde of. An unfortunate
death James the 5 had for he died of greif Macbeth
is a pretty composition but awful one Macbeth is
so bad &amp; wicked, but Lady Macbeth is so hardened
in guilt she does not mind her sins &amp; faults No.</p>

<p class='c034'>“... A sailor called here to say farewell, it must
be dreadful to leave his native country where he
might get a wife or perhaps me, for I love him very
much &amp; with all my heart, but O I forgot Isabella
forbid me to speak about love.... I wish everybody
would follow her example &amp; be as good as
<span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span>pious &amp; virtious as she is &amp; they would get husbands
soon enough, love is a parithatick [pathetic] thing
as well as troublesome &amp; tiresome but O Isabella
forbid me to speak about it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>But the little rascal can’t <em>keep</em> from speaking about
it, because it is her supreme interest in life; her heart
is not capacious enough to hold all the product that
is engendered by the ever-recurring inflaming spectacle
of man-creatures going by, and the surplus is
obliged to spill over; Isa’s prohibitions are no sufficient
dam for such a discharge.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Love I think is the fasion for everybody is marring
[marrying].... Yesterday a marrade man
named Mr John Balfour Esg [Esq.] offered to kiss
me, &amp; offered to marry me though the man was
espused [espoused], &amp; his wife was present &amp; said
he must ask her permission but he did not, I think
he was ashamed or confounded before 3 gentleman
Mr Jobson and two Mr Kings.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I must make room here for another of Marjorie’s
second-hand high-morality outbreaks. They give
me a sinful delight which I ought to grieve at, I suppose,
but I can’t seem to manage it:</p>

<p class='c034'>“James Macary is to be transported for murder
in the flower of his youth O passion is a terible thing
for it leads people from sin to sin at last it gets so
far as to come to greater crimes than we thought we
could comit and it must be dreadful to leave his
native country and his friends and to be so disgraced
and affronted.”</p>

<p class='c034'>That is Marjorie talking shop, dear little diplomat--to
please and comfort mamma and Isa, no doubt.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>This wee little child has a marvelous range of
interests. She reads philosophies, novels, baby books,
histories, the mighty poets--reads them with burning
interest, and frankly and freely criticizes them all;
she revels in storms, sunsets, cloud effects, scenery of
mountain, plain, ocean, and forest, and all the other
wonders of nature, and sets down her joy in them
all; she loves people, she detests people, according
to mood and circumstances, and delivers her opinion
of them, sometimes seasoned with attar of roses,
sometimes with vitriol; in games, and all kinds of
childish play she is an enthusiast; she adores animals,
adores them all; none is too forlorn to fail of favor
in her friendly eyes, no creature so humble that she
cannot find something in it on which to lavish her
caressing worship.</p>

<p class='c034'>“I am going to-morrow to a delightfull place,
Braehead by name, belonging to Mrs. Crraford
[Crauford], where there is ducks cocks hens bobblyjocks
2 dogs 2 cats and swine which is delightful.
I think it is shocking to think that the dog and cat
should bear them and they are drowned after all.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She is a dear child, a bewitching little scamp; and
never dearer, I think, than when the devil has had
her in possession and she is breaking her stormy
little heart over the remembrance of it:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I confess I have been very more like a little
young divil than a creature for when Isabella went
up stairs to teach me religion and my multiplication
and to be good and all my other lessons I stamped
with my foot and threw my new hat which she had
made on the ground and was sulky and was dreadfully
<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>passionate, but she never whiped me but said
Marjory go into another room and think what a
great crime you are committing letting your temper
git the better of you. But I went so sulkily that
the devil got the better of me but she never never
never whips me so that I think I would be the better
of it &amp; the next time that I behave ill I think she
should do it for she never does it.... Isabella has
given me praise for checking my temper for I was
sulky even when she was kneeling an whole hour
teaching me to write.”</p>

<p class='c034'>The wise Isabella, the sweet and patient Isabella!
It is just a hundred years now (May, 1909) since
the grateful child made that golden picture of you
and laid your good heart bare for distant generations
to see and bless; a hundred years--but if the picture
endures a thousand it will still bring you the blessing,
and with it the reverent homage that is your
due. You had the seeing eye and the wise head. A
fool would have punished Marjorie and wrecked
her, but you held your hand, as knowing that when
her volcanic fires went down she would repent, and
grieve, and punish herself, and be saved.</p>

<p class='c034'>Sometimes when Marjorie was miraculously good,
she got a penny for it, and once when she got an
entire sixpence, she recognized that it was wealth.
This wealth brought joy to her heart. Why?
Because she could spend it on somebody else! We
who know Marjorie would know that without being
told it. I am sorry--often sorry, often grieved--that
I was not there and looking over her shoulder
when she was writing down her valued penny
<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>rewards: I would have said, “Save that scrap of
manuscript, dear; make a will, and leave it to your
posterity, to save them from want when penury shall
threaten them; a day will come when it will be
worth a thousand guineas, and a later day will come
when it will be worth five thousand; here you are,
rejoicing in copper farthings, and don’t know that
your magic pen is showering gold coin all over the
paper.” But I was not there to say it; those who
were there did not think to say it; and so there is
not a line of that quaint precious cacography in
existence to-day.</p>

<p class='c034'>I have adored Marjorie for six-and-thirty years;
I have adored her in detail, I have adored the whole
of her; but above all other details--just a little
above all other details--I have adored her because
she detested that odious and confusing and unvanquishable
and unlearnable and shameless invention,
the multiplication table:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I am now going to tell you the horible and
wretched plaege [plague] that my multiplication gives
me you can’t conceive it the most Devilish thing is
8 times 8 &amp; 7 times 7 it is what nature itself cant
endure.”</p>

<p class='c034'>I stand reverently uncovered in the presence of
that holy verdict.</p>

<p class='c034'>Here is that person again whom I so dislike--and
for no reason at all except that my Marjorie doesn’t
like her:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Miss Potune is very fat she pretends to be very
learned she says she saw a stone that dropt from
the skies, but she is a good christian.”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>Of course, stones have fallen from the skies, but I
don’t believe this “horid fat Simpliton” had ever seen
one that had done it; but even if she had, it was
none of her business, and she could have been better
employed than in going around exaggerating it and
carrying on about it and trying to make trouble
with a little child that had never done <em>her</em> any
harm.</p>

<p class='c034'>“... The Birds do chirp the Lambs do leap and
Nature is clothed with the garments of green yellow,
and white, purple, and red.</p>

<p class='c034'>“... There is a book that is called the Newgate
Calender that contains all the Murders: all the
Murders did I say, nay all Thefts &amp; Forgeries that
ever were committed &amp; fills me with horror &amp;
consternation.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Marjorie is a diligent little student, and her education
is always storming along and making great time
and lots of noise:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Isabella this morning taught me some French
words one of which is bon suar the interpretation is
good morning.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It slanders Isabella, but the slander is not intentional.
The main thing to notice is that big word,
“interpretation.” Not many children of Marjorie’s
age can handle a five syllable team in that easy and
confident way. It is observable that she frequently
employs words of an imposingly formidable size, and
is manifestly quite familiar with them and not at all
afraid of them.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Isa is teaching me to make Simecolings nots of
interrigations periods &amp; commas &amp;c. As this is Sunday
<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>I will meditate uppon senciable &amp; Religious subjects
first I should be very thankful I am not a beggar
as many are.”</p>

<p class='c034'>That was the “first.” She didn’t get to her second
subject, but got side-tracked by a saner interest, and
used her time to better purpose.</p>

<p class='c034'>“It is melancholy to think, that I have so many
talents, &amp; many there are that have not had the
attention paid to them that I have, &amp; yet they contrive
to be better then me.</p>

<p class='c034'>“... Isabella is far too indulgent to me &amp; even
the Miss Crafords say that they wonder at her
patience with me &amp; it is indeed true for my temper
is a bad one.”</p>

<p class='c034'>The daring child wrote a (synopsized) history of
Mary Queen of Scots and of five of the royal Jameses
in rhyme--but never mind, we have no room to discuss
it here. Nothing was entirely beyond her literary
jurisdiction; if it had occurred to her that the
laws of Rome needed codifying she would have taken
a chance at it.</p>

<p class='c034'>Here is a sad note:</p>

<p class='c034'>“My religion is greatly falling off because I dont
pray with so much attention when I am saying my
prayers and my character is lost a-mong the Breahead
people I hope I will be religious again but as for
regaining my character I despare of it.”</p>

<p class='c034'>When religion and character go, they leave a large
vacuum. But there are ways to fill it:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I’ve forgot to say, but I’ve four lovers, the other
one is Harry Watson, a very delightful boy....
James Keith hardly ever Spoke to me, he said Girl!
<span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>make less noise.... Craky hall ... I walked
to that delightfull place with a delightful young man
beloved by all his friends and espacialy by me his
loveress but I must not talk any longer about him
for Isa said it is not proper for to speak of gentalman
but I will never forget him....</p>

<p class='c034'>“The Scythians tribe live very coarsely for a
Gluton Introduced to Arsaces the Captain of the
Army, 1 man who Dressed hair &amp; another man who
was a good cook but Arsaces said that he would keep
1 for brushing his horses tail and the other to fead
his pigs....</p>

<p class='c034'>“On Saturday I expected no less than three well-made
bucks, the names of whom is here advertised.
Mr. Geo. Crakey [Cragie], and Wm. Keith and Jn
Keith--the first is the funniest of every one of them.
Mr. Crakey and I walked to Craky-hall [Craigiehall]
hand and hand in Innocence and matitation
sweet thinking on the kind love which flows in
our tender hearted mind which is overflowing
with majestic pleasure no one was ever so polite to
me in the hole state of my existence. Mr. Craky
you must know is a great Buck and pretty good-looking.”</p>

<p class='c034'>For a purpose, I wish the reader to take careful
note of these statistics:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I am going to tell you of a melancholy story.
A young turkie of 2 or 3 months old, would you
believe it, the father broke its leg, &amp; he killed
another! I think he ought to be transported or
hanged.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Marjorie wrote some verses about this tragedy--I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>think. I cannot be quite certain it is this one, for
in the verses there are three deaths, whereas these
statistics do not furnish so many. Also in the statistics
the father of the deceased is indifferent about
the loss he has sustained, whereas in the verses he
is not. Also in the third verse, the <em>mother</em>, too,
exhibits feeling, whereas in the two closing verses
of the poem she--at least it seems to be she--is
indifferent. At least it looks like indifference to me,
and I believe it <em>is</em> indifference:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c040'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“Three turkeys fair their last have breathed,</div>
      <div class='line'>And now this world forever leaved;</div>
      <div class='line'>Their father, and their mother too,</div>
      <div class='line'>They sighed and weep as well as you;</div>
      <div class='line'>Indeed, the rats their bones have cranched.</div>
      <div class='line'>Into eternity theire launched.</div>
      <div class='line'>A direful death indeed they had,</div>
      <div class='line'>As wad put any parent mad;</div>
      <div class='line'>But she was more than usual calm,</div>
      <div class='line'>She did not give a single dam.”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c039'>The naughty little scamp! I mean, for not leaving
out the <em>l</em> in the word “Calm,” so as to perfect
the rhyme. It seems a pity to damage with a
lame rhyme a couplet that is otherwise without a
blemish.</p>

<p class='c034'>Marjorie wrote four journals. She began the first
one in January, 1809, when she was just six years
old, and finished it five months later, in June.</p>

<p class='c034'>She began the second in the following month, and
finished it six months afterward (January, 1810),
when she was just seven.</p>

<p class='c034'>She began the third one in April, 1810, and finished
it in the autumn.</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>She wrote the fourth in the winter of 1810-11, and
the last entry in it bears date July 19, 1811, and
she died exactly five months later, December 19th,
aged eight years and eleven months. It contains
her rhymed Scottish histories.</p>

<p class='c034'>Let me quote from Dr. John Brown:</p>

<p class='c034'>“The day before her death, Sunday, she sat up
in bed, worn and thin, her eye gleaming as with the
light of a coming world, and with a tremulous, old
voice repeated a long poem by Burns--heavy with
the shadow of death, and lit with the fantasy of the
judgment seat--the publican’s prayer in paraphrase,
beginning:</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c040'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“‘Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?</div>
      <div class='line'>Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between,</div>
      <div class='line in4'>Some gleams of sunshine ’mid renewing storms.’</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c039'>“It is more affecting than we care to say to read
her mother’s and Isabella Keith’s letters written
immediately after her death. Old and withered,
tattered and pale, they are now; but when you read
them, how quick, how throbbing with life and love!
how rich in that language of affection which only
women, and Shakespeare, and Luther can use--that
power of detaining the soul over the beloved object
and its loss.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Fifty years after Marjorie’s death her sister, writing
to Dr. Brown, said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“My mother was struck by the patient quietness
manifested by Marjorie during this illness, unlike
her ardent, impulsive nature; but love and poetic
feeling were unquenched. When Dr. Johnstone
<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>rewarded her submissiveness with a sixpence, the
request speedily followed that she might get out ere
New Year’s Day came. When asked why she was so
desirous of getting out, she immediately rejoined:
‘Oh, I am so anxious to buy something with my
sixpence for my dear Isa Keith.’ Again, when lying
very still, her mother asked her if there was anything
she wished: ‘Oh yes, if you would just leave the
room door open a wee bit, and play the <cite>Land o’ the
Leal</cite>, and I will lie and <em>think</em> and enjoy myself’
(this is just as stated to me by her mother and mine).
Well, the happy day came, alike to parents and child,
when Marjorie was allowed to come forth from the
nursery to the parlor. It was Sabbath evening, and
after tea. My father, who idolized this child, and
never afterward in my hearing mentioned her name,
took her in his arms; and while walking her up and
down the room she said: ‘Father, I will repeat something
to you; what would you like?’ He said,
‘Just choose for yourself, Maidie.’ She hesitated for
a moment between the paraphrase, ‘Few are thy
days and full of woe,’ and the lines of Burns already
quoted, but decided on the latter; a remarkable
choice for a child. The repeating of these lines
seemed to stir up the depths of feeling in her soul.
She asked to be allowed to write a poem. There
was a doubt whether it would be right to allow her,
in case of hurting her eyes. She pleaded earnestly,
‘Just this once’; the point was yielded, her slate
was given her, and with great rapidity she wrote an
address of fourteen lines ‘To my loved cousin on the
author’s recovery.’”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>The cousin was Isa Keith.</p>

<p class='c034'>“She went to bed apparently well, awoke in the
middle of the night with the old cry of woe to a
mother’s heart, ‘My head, my head!’ Three days
of the dire malady, ‘water in the head,’ followed,
and the end came.”</p>

<hr class='c024' />
<div class='footnote' id='f17'>
<p class='c034'><a href='#r17'>17</a>. <cite>Marjorie Fleming.</cite> By L. MacBean. G. P. Putnam’s Sons,
publishers, London and New York.</p>

<p class='c034'>Permission to use the extracts quoted from Marjorie’s Journal
in this article has been granted me by the publishers.</p>
</div>
<div class='footnote' id='f18'>
<p class='c034'><a href='#r18'>18</a>. It is a whole century since the dimly conscious little prophet said
it, but the pathos of it is still there.</p>
</div>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>ADAM’S SOLILOQUY</h2>
</div>

<div class='quote'>

<p class='c037'>(The spirit of Adam is supposed to be visiting New York City
inspecting the dinosaur at the Museum of Natural History)</p>

</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>(1905)</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>I</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c036'>It is strange ... very strange. <em>I</em> do not remember
this creature. (<em>After gazing long and admiringly.</em>)
Well, it is wonderful! The mere <em>skeleton</em>
fifty-seven feet long and sixteen feet high! Thus
far, it seems, they’ve found only this sample--without
doubt a merely medium-sized one; a person
could not step out here into the Park and happen
by luck upon the largest horse in America; no, he
would happen upon one that would look small alongside
of the biggest Normandy. It is quite likely that
the biggest dinosaur was ninety feet long and twenty
feet high. It would be five times as long as an elephant;
an elephant would be to it what a calf is to an
elephant. The bulk of the creature! The weight of
him! As long as the longest whale, and twice the substance
in him! And all good wholesome pork, most
likely; meat enough to last a village a year....
Think of a hundred of them in line, draped in shining
cloth of gold!--a majestic thing for a coronation procession.
But expensive, for he would eat much; only
kings and millionaires could afford him.</p>

<p class='c034'>I have no recollection of him; neither Eve nor I
<span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>had heard of him until yesterday. We spoke to
Noah about him; he colored and changed the subject.
Being brought back to it--and pressed a
little--he confessed that in the matter of stocking
the Ark the stipulations had not been carried out
with absolute strictness--that is, in minor details,
unessentials. There were some irregularities. He
said the boys were to blame for this--the boys
mainly, his own fatherly indulgence partly. They
were in the giddy heyday of their youth at the time,
the happy springtime of life; their hundred years sat
upon them lightly, and--well, he had once been a
boy himself, and he had not the heart to be too
exacting with them. And so--well, they did things
they shouldn’t have done, and he--to be candid, he
winked. But on the whole they did pretty faithful
work, considering their age. They collected and
stowed a good share of the really useful animals;
and also, when Noah was not watching, a multitude
of useless ones, such as flies, mosquitoes, snakes,
and so on, but they did certainly leave ashore a
good many creatures which might possibly have
had value some time or other, in the course of time.
Mainly these were vast saurians a hundred feet
long, and monstrous mammals, such as the megatherium
and that sort, and there was really some
excuse for leaving them behind, for two reasons:
(1) it was manifest that some time or other they
would be needed as fossils for museums and (2)
there had been a miscalculation, the Ark was smaller
than it should have been, and so there wasn’t room
for those creatures. There was actually fossil material
<span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>enough all by itself to freight twenty-five Arks
like that one. As for the dinosaur----But Noah’s
conscience was easy; it was not named in his cargo
list and he and the boys were not aware that there
was such a creature. He said he could not blame
himself for not knowing about the dinosaur, because
it was an American animal, and America had not
then been discovered.</p>

<p class='c034'>Noah went on to say, “I did reproach the boys
for not making the most of the room we had, by
discarding trashy animals and substituting beasts
like the mastodon, which could be useful to man in
doing heavy work such as the elephant performs,
but they said those great creatures would have
increased our labors beyond our strength, in the
matter of feeding and watering them, we being
short-handed. There was something in that. We
had no pump; there was but one window; we
had to let down a bucket from that, and haul it up
a good fifty feet, which was very tiresome; then we
had to carry the water downstairs--fifty feet again,
in cases where it was for the elephants and their
kind, for we kept them in the hold to serve for
ballast. As it was, we lost many animals--choice
animals that would have been valuable in menageries--different
breeds of lions, tigers, hyenas, wolves,
and so on; for they wouldn’t drink the water after
the salt sea water got mixed with the fresh. But
we never lost a locust, nor a grasshopper, nor a
weevil, nor a rat, nor a cholera germ, nor any of
that sort of beings. On the whole, I think we did
very well, everything considered. We were shepherds
<span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>and farmers; we had never been to sea before;
we were ignorant of naval matters, and I know this
for certain, that there is more difference between
agriculture and navigation than a person would
think. It is my opinion that the two trades do not
belong together. Shem thinks the same; so does
Japheth. As for what Ham thinks, it is not important.
Ham is biased. You find me a Presbyterian
that isn’t, if you think you can.”</p>

<p class='c034'>He said it aggressively; it had in it the spirit of a
challenge. I avoided argument by changing the subject.
With Noah, arguing is a passion, a disease, and
it is growing upon him; has been growing upon him
for thirty thousand years, and more. It makes him
unpopular, unpleasant; many of his oldest friends
dread to meet him. Even strangers soon get to
avoiding him, although at first they are glad to meet
him and gaze at him, on account of his celebrated
adventure. For a time they are proud of his notice,
because he is so distinguished; but he argues them
to rags, and before long they begin to wish, like the
rest, that something had happened to the Ark.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>II</div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>(<i>On the bench in the Park, midafternoon, dreamily
noting the drift, of the human species back and forth.</i>)
To think--this multitude is but a wee little fraction
of the earth’s population! And all blood kin to me,
every one! Eve ought to have come with me; this
would excite her affectionate heart. She was never
able to keep her composure when she came upon a
relative; she would try to kiss every one of these
<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>people, black and white and all. (<i>A baby wagon
passes.</i>) How little change one can notice--none at
all, in fact. I remember the first child well----Let
me see ... it is three hundred thousand years ago
come Tuesday. This one is just like it. So between
the first one and the last one there is really nothing
to choose. The same insufficiency of hair, the same
absence of teeth, the same feebleness of body and
apparent vacancy of mind, the same general unattractiveness
all around. Yet Eve worshiped that
early one, and it was pretty to see her with it. This
latest one’s mother worships <em>it</em>; it shows in her
eyes--it is the very look that used to shine in Eve’s.
To think that so subtle and intangible a thing as a
<em>look</em> could flit and flash from face to face down a
procession three hundred thousand years long and
remain the same, without shade of change! Yet
here it is, lighting this young creature’s face just as
it lighted Eve’s in the long ago--the newest thing
I have seen in the earth, and the oldest. Of course,
the dinosaur----But that is in another class.</p>

<p class='c034'>She drew the baby wagon to the bench and sat
down and began to shove it softly back and forth
with one hand while she held up a newspaper with
the other and absorbed herself in its contents.
Presently, “My!” she exclaimed; which startled
me, and I ventured to ask her, modestly and respectfully,
what was the matter. She courteously passed
the paper to me and said--pointing with her finger:</p>

<p class='c034'>“There--it reads like fact, but I don’t know.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It was very embarrassing. I tried to look at my
ease, and nonchalantly turned the paper this and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>that and the other way, but her eye was upon me
and I felt that I was not succeeding. Pretty soon
she asked, hesitatingly:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Can’t--can’t--you--read?”</p>

<p class='c034'>I had to confess that I couldn’t. It filled her
with wonder. But it had one pleasant effect--it
interested her in me, and I was thankful, for I was
getting lonesome for some one to talk to and listen
to. The young fellow who was showing me around--on
his own motion, I did not invite him--had
missed his appointment at the Museum, and I was
feeling disappointed, for he was good company.
When I told the young woman I could not read,
she asked me another embarrassing question:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Where are you from?”</p>

<p class='c034'>I skirmished--to gain time and position. I said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Make a guess. See how near you can come.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She brightened, and exclaimed:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I shall dearly like it, sir, if you don’t mind. If
I guess right will you tell me?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Honor bright?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Honor bright? What is that?”</p>

<p class='c034'>She laughed delightedly and said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“That’s a good start! I was <em>sure</em> that that phrase
would catch you. I know one thing, now, all right.
I know----”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What do you know?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“That you are not an American. And you aren’t,
<em>are</em> you?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“No. You are right. I’m not--honor bright, as
you say.”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>She looked immensely pleased with herself, and
said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I reckon I’m not always smart, but <em>that</em> was
smart, anyway. But not so <em>very</em>, after all, because
I already knew--believed I knew--that you were a
foreigner, by another sign.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What was that?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Your accent.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She was an accurate observer; I do speak English
with a heavenly accent, and she had detected the
foreign twang in it. She ran charmingly on, most
naïvely and engagingly pleased with her triumph:</p>

<p class='c034'>“The minute you said, ‘See ’ow near you can
come to it,’ I said to myself, ‘Two to one he is a
foreigner, and ten to one he’s English.’ Now that
<em>is</em> your nationality, <em>isn’t</em> it?”</p>

<p class='c034'>I was sorry to spoil her victory, but I had to do it:
“Ah--you’ll have to guess again.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“What--you are not an Englishman?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“No--honor bright.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She looked me searchingly over, evidently communing
with herself--adding up my points, then
she said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, you don’t <em>look</em> like an Englishman, and
that is true.” After a little she added, “The fact
is, you don’t look like <em>any</em> foreigner--not quite
like ... like <em>anybody</em> I’ve seen before. I will guess
some more.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She guessed every country whose name she could
think of and grew gradually discouraged. Finally
she said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“You must be the Man Without a Country--the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>one the story tells about. You don’t seem to have
any nationality at all. How did you come to come
to America? Have you any kinfolks here?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes--several.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, then you came to see <em>them</em>.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Partly--yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>She sat awhile, thinking, then:</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, I’m not going to give up quite yet. Where
do you live when you are at home--in a city, or in
the country?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Which do you think?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, I don’t quite know. You <em>do</em> look a little
countrified, if you don’t mind my saying it; but
you look a little citified, too--not much, but a little,
although you can’t read, which is very curious, and
you are not used to newspapers. Now <em>my</em> guess is
that you live mainly in the country when you are at
home, and not very much in the city. Is that right?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes, quite right.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, good! Now I’ll take a fresh start.”</p>

<p class='c034'>Then she wore herself to the bone, naming cities.
No success. Next she wanted me to help her a
little with some “pointers,” as she phrased it. Was
my city large? Yes. Was it very large? Yes. Did
they have mobiles there? No. Electric light? No.
Railroads, hospitals, colleges, cops? No.</p>

<p class='c034'>“Why, then, it’s not civilized! Where <em>can</em> that
place be? Be good and tell me just one peculiarity
of it--then maybe I can guess.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Well, then, just one; it has gates of pearl.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, go along! That’s the New Jerusalem. It
isn’t fair to joke. Never mind. I’ll guess it yet--it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>will come into my head pretty soon, just when I’m
not expecting it. Oh, I’ve got an idea! Please talk
a little in your own language--that’ll be a good
pointer.” I accommodated her with a sentence or
two. She shook her head despondently.</p>

<p class='c034'>“No,” she said, “it doesn’t sound human. I
mean, it doesn’t sound like any of these other foreigners.
It’s pretty enough--it’s quite pretty, I
think--but I’m sure I’ve not heard it before. Maybe
if you were to pronounce your name----&nbsp;&nbsp;What <em>is</em>
your name, if you’ll be so good?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Adam.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Adam?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“But Adam <em>what</em>?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“That is all--just Adam.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Nothing at all but just that? Why, how curious!
There’s plenty of Adams; how can they tell you
from the rest?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh, that is no trouble. I’m the only one there
is, there where I’m from.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Upon my word! Well, it beats the band! It
reminds a person of the old original. That was his
name, too, and he hadn’t any but that--just like
you.” Then, archly, “You’ve heard of him, I
suppose?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Oh yes! Do you know him? Have you ever
seen him?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“<em>Seen</em> him? Seen <em>Adam</em>? Thanks to goodness,
no! It would scare me into fits.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“I don’t see why.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“You don’t?”</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>“No.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“<em>Why</em> don’t you see why?”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Because there is no sense in a person being scared
of his kin.”</p>

<p class='c034'>“<em>Kin?</em>”</p>

<p class='c034'>“Yes. Isn’t he a distant relative of yours?”</p>

<p class='c034'>She thought it was prodigiously funny, and said it
was perfectly true, but <em>she</em> never would have been
bright enough to think of it. I found it a new and
most pleasant sensation to have my wit admired,
and was about to try to do some more when that
young fellow came. He planted himself on the other
side of the young woman and began a vapid remark
about the weather, but she gave him a look that
withered him and got stiffly up and wheeled the
baby away.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_387'>387</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>BIBLE TEACHING AND RELIGIOUS <br />PRACTICE</h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>Religion had its share in the changes of civilization
and national character, of course. What
share? The lion’s. In the history of the human
race this has always been the case, will always be
the case, to the end of time, no doubt; or at least
until man by the slow processes of evolution shall
develop into something really fine and high--some
billions of years hence, say.</p>

<p class='c034'>The Christian’s Bible is a drug store. Its contents
remain the same; but the medical practice changes.
For eighteen hundred years these changes were
slight--scarcely noticeable. The practice was allopathic--allopathic
in its rudest and crudest form.
The dull and ignorant physician day and night, and
all the days and all the nights, drenched his patient
with vast and hideous doses of the most repulsive
drugs to be found in the store’s stock; he bled him,
cupped him, purged him, puked him, salivated him,
never gave his system a chance to rally, nor nature
a chance to help. He kept him religion sick for
eighteen centuries, and allowed him not a well day
during all that time. The stock in the store was
made up of about equal portions of baleful and
debilitating poisons, and healing and comforting
medicines; but the practice of the time confined
<span class='pageno' id='Page_388'>388</span>the physician to the use of the former; by consequence,
he could only damage his patient, and that
is what he did.</p>

<p class='c034'>Not until far within our century was any considerable
change in the practice introduced; and then
mainly, or in effect only, in Great Britain and the
United States. In the other countries to-day, the
patient either still takes the ancient treatment or
does not call the physician at all. In the English-speaking
countries the changes observable in our
century were forced by that very thing just referred
to--the revolt of the patient against the system;
they were not projected by the physician. The
patient fell to doctoring himself, and the physician’s
practice began to fall off. He modified his method
to get back his trade. He did it gradually, reluctantly;
and never yielded more at a time than the
pressure compelled. At first he relinquished the
daily dose of hell and damnation, and administered
it every other day only; next he allowed another
day to pass; then another and presently another;
when he had restricted it at last to Sundays, and
imagined that now there would surely be a truce,
the homœopath arrived on the field and made him
abandon hell and damnation altogether, and administered
Christ’s love, and comfort, and charity and
compassion in its stead. These had been in the drug
store all the time, gold labeled and conspicuous among
the long shelfloads of repulsive purges and vomits and
poisons, and so the practice was to blame that they
had remained unused, not the pharmacy. To the
ecclesiastical physician of fifty years ago, his predecessor
<span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span>for eighteen centuries was a quack; to the
ecclesiastical physician of to-day, his predecessor of
fifty years ago was a quack. To the every-man-his-own-ecclesiastical-doctor
of--when?--what will the
ecclesiastical physician of to-day be? Unless evolution,
which has been a truth ever since the globes,
suns, and planets of the solar system were but wandering
films of meteor dust, shall reach a limit and become
a lie, there is but one fate in store for him.</p>

<p class='c034'>The methods of the priest and the parson have
been very curious, their history is very entertaining.
In all the ages the Roman Church has owned slaves,
bought and sold slaves, authorized and encouraged
her children to trade in them. Long after some
Christian peoples had freed their slaves the Church
still held on to hers. If any could know, to absolute
certainty, that all this was right, and according to
God’s will and desire, surely it was she, since she
was God’s specially appointed representative in the
earth and sole authorized and infallible expounder
of his Bible. There were the texts; there was no
mistaking their meaning; she was right, she was
doing in this thing what the Bible had mapped out
for her to do. So unassailable was her position that
in all the centuries she had no word to say against
human slavery. Yet now at last, in our immediate
day, we hear a Pope saying slave trading is wrong,
and we see him sending an expedition to Africa to
stop it. The texts remain: it is the practice that
has changed. Why? Because the world has corrected
the Bible. The Church never corrects it; and
also never fails to drop in at the tail of the procession--and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>take the credit of the correction. As she
will presently do in this instance.</p>

<p class='c034'>Christian England supported slavery and encouraged
it for two hundred and fifty years, and her
Church’s consecrated ministers looked on, sometimes
taking an active hand, the rest of the time
indifferent. England’s interest in the business may
be called a Christian interest, a Christian industry.
She had her full share in its revival after a long
period of inactivity, and this revival was a Christian
monopoly; that is to say, it was in the hands of
Christian countries exclusively. English parliaments
aided the slave traffic and protected it; two English
kings held stock in slave-catching companies. The
first regular English slave hunter--John Hawkins, of
still revered memory--made such successful havoc,
on his second voyage, in the matter of surprising
and burning villages, and maiming, slaughtering,
capturing, and selling their unoffending inhabitants,
that his delighted queen conferred the chivalric
honor of knighthood on him--a rank which had
acquired its chief esteem and distinction in other
and earlier fields of Christian effort. The new knight,
with characteristic English frankness and brusque
simplicity, chose as his device the figure of a negro
slave, kneeling and in chains. Sir John’s work was
the invention of Christians, was to remain a bloody
and awful monopoly in the hands of Christians for a
quarter of a millennium, was to destroy homes, separate
families, enslave friendless men and women,
and break a myriad of human hearts, to the end
that Christian nations might be prosperous and comfortable,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span>Christian churches be built, and the gospel
of the meek and merciful Redeemer be spread abroad
in the earth; and so in the name of his ship, unsuspected
but eloquent and clear, lay hidden prophecy.
She was called <i>The Jesus</i>.</p>

<p class='c034'>But at last in England, an illegitimate Christian
rose against slavery. It is curious that when a
Christian rises against a rooted wrong at all, he is
usually an illegitimate Christian, member of some
despised and bastard sect. There was a bitter
struggle, but in the end the slave trade had to go--and
went. The Biblical authorization remained, but
the practice changed.</p>

<p class='c034'>Then--the usual thing happened; the visiting
English critic among us began straightway to hold
up his pious hands in horror at our slavery. His
distress was unappeasable, his words full of bitterness
and contempt. It is true we had not so many
as fifteen hundred thousand slaves for him to worry
about, while his England still owned twelve millions,
in her foreign possessions; but that fact did not
modify his wail any, or stay his tears, or soften his
censure. The fact that every time we had tried
to get rid of our slavery in previous generations,
but had always been obstructed, balked, and defeated
by England, was a matter of no consequence
to him; it was ancient history, and not worth the
telling.</p>

<p class='c034'>Our own conversion came at last. We began to
stir against slavery. Hearts grew soft, here, there,
and yonder. There was no place in the land where
the seeker could not find some small budding sign of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>pity for the slave. No place in all the land but one--the
pulpit. It yielded at last; it always does. It
fought a strong and stubborn fight, and then did what
it always does, joined the procession--at the tail end.
Slavery fell. The slavery text remained; the practice
changed, that was all.</p>

<p class='c034'>During many ages there were witches. The Bible
said so. The Bible commanded that they should not
be allowed to live. Therefore the Church, after
doing its duty in but a lazy and indolent way for
eight hundred years, gathered up its halters, thumb-screws,
and firebrands, and set about its holy work
in earnest. She worked hard at it night and day
during nine centuries and imprisoned, tortured,
hanged, and burned whole hordes and armies of
witches, and washed the Christian world clean with
their foul blood.</p>

<p class='c034'>Then it was discovered that there was no such
thing as witches, and never had been. One does not
know whether to laugh or to cry. Who discovered
that there was no such thing as a witch--the priest,
the parson? No, these never discover anything.
At Salem, the parson clung pathetically to his witch
text after the laity had abandoned it in remorse and
tears for the crimes and cruelties it has persuaded
them to do. The parson wanted more blood, more
shame, more brutalities; it was the unconsecrated
laity that stayed his hand. In Scotland the parson
killed the witch after the magistrate had pronounced
her innocent; and when the merciful legislature proposed
to sweep the hideous laws against witches from
the statute book, it was the parson who came imploring,
<span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>with tears and imprecations, that they be suffered
to stand.</p>

<p class='c034'>There are no witches. The witch text remains;
only the practice has changed. Hell fire is gone, but
the text remains. Infant damnation is gone, but
the text remains. More than two hundred death
penalties are gone from the law books, but the
texts that authorized them remain.</p>

<p class='c034'>Is it not well worthy of note that of all the multitude
of texts through which man has driven his
annihilating pen he has never once made the mistake
of obliterating a good and useful one? It does certainly
seem to suggest that if man continues in the
direction of enlightenment, his religious practice may,
in the end, attain some semblance of human decency.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>THE WAR PRAYER <br /> <span class='small'>(Dictated 1904-05)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>It was a time of great and exalting excitement.
The country was up in arms, the war was on,
in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism;
the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy
pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and
spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding
and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering
wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the
young volunteers marched down the wide avenue
gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers
and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering
them with voices choked with happy emotion as
they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings
listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred
the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they
interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of
applause, the tears running down their cheeks the
while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion
to flag and country, and invoked the God of
Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in
outpouring of fervid eloquence which moved every
listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time,
and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove
of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness
straightway got such a stern and angry
<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>warning that for their personal safety’s sake they
quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more
in that way.</p>

<p class='c034'>Sunday morning came--next day the battalions
would leave for the front; the church was filled;
the volunteers were there, their young faces alight
with martial dreams--visions of the stern advance,
the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the
flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the
enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!--them
home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed,
adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With
the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy,
and envied by the neighbors and friends who had
no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of
honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the
noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a
war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the
first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ
burst that shook the building, and with one impulse
the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating
hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation--</p>

<div class='lg-container-b c040'>
  <div class='linegroup'>
    <div class='group'>
      <div class='line'>“God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,</div>
      <div class='line'>Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!”</div>
    </div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c039'>Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember
the like of it for passionate pleading and moving
and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication
was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father
of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and
aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic
work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle
<span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand,
make them strong and confident, invincible in the
bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to
them and to their flag and country imperishable
honor and glory--</p>

<p class='c034'>An aged stranger entered and moved with slow
and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed
upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe
that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white
hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders,
his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness.
With all eyes following him and wondering,
he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended
to the preacher’s side and stood there, waiting. With
shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence,
continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it
with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless
our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God,
Father and Protector of our land and flag!”</p>

<p class='c034'>The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to
step aside--which the startled minister did--and
took his place. During some moments he surveyed
the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which
burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he
said:</p>

<p class='c034'>“I come from the Throne--bearing a message
from Almighty God!” The words smote the house
with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no
attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant
your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your
desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained
to you its import--that is to say, its full import.
<span class='pageno' id='Page_397'>397</span>For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in
that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware
of--except he pause and think.</p>

<p class='c034'>“God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer.
Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer?
No, it is two--one uttered, the other not. Both
have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications,
the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this--keep
it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing
upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke
a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you
pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which
needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a
curse upon some neighbor’s crop which may not
need rain and can be injured by it.</p>

<p class='c034'>“You have heard your servant’s prayer--the
uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to
put into words the other part of it--that part
which the pastor--and also you in your hearts--fervently
prayed silently. And ignorantly and
unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You
heard these words: ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord
our God!’ That is sufficient. The <em>whole</em> of the
uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words.
Elaborations were not necessary. When you have
prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned
results which follow victory--<em>must</em> follow it,
cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit
of God the Father fell also the unspoken part of the
prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words.
Listen!</p>

<p class='c034'>“O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of
<span class='pageno' id='Page_398'>398</span>our hearts, go forth to battle--be Thou near them!
With them--in spirit--we also go forth from the
sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.
O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to
bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their
smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot
dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with
the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help
us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane
of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending
widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn
them out roofless with their little children to wander
unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags
and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of
summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in
spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the
refuge of the grave and denied it--for our sakes who
adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their
lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy
their steps, water their way with their tears, stain
the white snow with the blood of their wounded
feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who
is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful
refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek
His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.”</p>

<p class='c034'>(<i>After a pause.</i>) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still
desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High
waits.”</p>

<p class='c034'>It was believed afterward that the man was a
lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.</p>

<div class='chapter'>
  <span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span>
  <h2 class='c007'>CORN-PONE OPINIONS <br /> <span class='small'>(Written in 1900)</span></h2>
</div>

<p class='drop-capa0_2_0_4 c033'>Fifty years ago, when I was a boy of fifteen
and helping to inhabit a Missourian village on
the banks of the Mississippi, I had a friend whose
society was very dear to me because I was forbidden
by my mother to partake of it. He was a gay and
impudent and satirical and delightful young black
man--a slave--who daily preached sermons from
the top of his master’s woodpile, with me for sole
audience. He imitated the pulpit style of the several
clergymen of the village, and did it well, and with
fine passion and energy. To me he was a wonder. I
believed he was the greatest orator in the United
States and would some day be heard from. But
it did not happen; in the distribution of rewards he
was overlooked. It is the way, in this world.</p>

<p class='c034'>He interrupted his preaching, now and then, to
saw a stick of wood; but the sawing was a pretense--he
did it with his mouth; exactly imitating the
sound the bucksaw makes in shrieking its way
through the wood. But it served its purpose; it
kept his master from coming out to see how the
work was getting along. I listened to the sermons
from the open window of a lumber room at the back
of the house. One of his texts was this:</p>

<p class='c034'>“You tell me whar a man gits his corn pone, en
I’ll tell you what his ’pinions is.“</p>

<p class='c034'><span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>I can never forget it. It was deeply impressed
upon me. By my mother. Not upon my memory,
but elsewhere. She had slipped in upon me while I
was absorbed and not watching. The black philosopher’s
idea was that a man is not independent, and
cannot afford views which might interfere with his
bread and butter. If he would prosper, he must train
with the majority; in matters of large moment, like
politics and religion, he must think and feel with the
bulk of his neighbors, or suffer damage in his social
standing and in his business prosperities. He must
restrict himself to corn-pone opinions--at least on
the surface. He must get his opinions from other
people; he must reason out none for himself; he
must have no first-hand views.</p>

<p class='c034'>I think Jerry was right, in the main, but I think
he did not go far enough.</p>

<p class='c034'>1. It was his idea that a man conforms to the
majority view of his locality by calculation and
intention.</p>

<p class='c034'>This happens, but I think it is not the rule.</p>

<p class='c034'>2. It was his idea that there is such a thing as a
first-hand opinion; an original opinion; an opinion
which is coldly reasoned out in a man’s head, by a
searching analysis of the facts involved, with the
heart unconsulted, and the jury room closed against
outside influences. It may be that such an opinion
has been born somewhere, at some time or other, but
I suppose it got away before they could catch it and
stuff it and put it in the museum.</p>

<p class='c034'>I am persuaded that a coldly-thought-out and
independent verdict upon a fashion in clothes, or
<span class='pageno' id='Page_401'>401</span>manners, or literature, or politics, or religion, or
any other matter that is projected into the field of
our notice and interest, is a most rare thing--if it
has indeed ever existed.</p>

<p class='c034'>A new thing in costume appears--the flaring hoopskirt,
for example--and the passers-by are shocked,
and the irreverent laugh. Six months later everybody
is reconciled; the fashion has established itself;
<a id='corr401.9'></a><span class='htmlonly'><ins class='correction' title='is'>it</ins></span><span class='epubonly'><a href='#c_401.9'><ins class='correction' title='is'>it</ins></a></span> is admired, now, and no one laughs. Public opinion
resented it before, public opinion accepts it now, and
is happy in it. Why? Was the resentment reasoned
out? Was the acceptance reasoned out? No. The
instinct that moves to conformity did the work. It
is our nature to conform; it is a force which not
many can successfully resist. What is its seat? The
inborn requirement of self-approval. We all have
to bow to that; there are no exceptions. Even the
woman who refuses from first to last to wear the
hoopskirt comes under that law and is its slave;
she could not wear the skirt and have her own
approval; and that she <em>must</em> have, she cannot help
herself. But as a rule our self-approval has its
source in but one place and not elsewhere--the
approval of other people. A person of vast consequences
can introduce any kind of novelty in dress
and the general world will presently adopt it--moved
to do it, in the first place, by the natural instinct to
passively yield to that vague something recognized
as authority, and in the second place by the human
instinct to train with the multitude and have its
approval. An empress introduced the hoopskirt,
and we know the result. A nobody introduced the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_402'>402</span>bloomer, and we know the result. If Eve should
come again, in her ripe renown, and reintroduce her
quaint styles--well, we know what would happen.
And we should be cruelly embarrassed, along at
first.</p>

<p class='c034'>The hoopskirt runs its course and disappears.
Nobody reasons about it. One woman abandons the
fashion; her neighbor notices this and follows her
lead; this influences the next woman; and so on
and so on, and presently the skirt has vanished out
of the world, no one knows how nor why; nor cares,
for that matter. It will come again, by and by;
and in due course will go again.</p>

<p class='c034'>Twenty-five years ago, in England, six or eight
wine glasses stood grouped by each person’s plate
at a dinner party, and they were used, not left idle
and empty; to-day there are but three or four in the
group, and the average guest sparingly uses about
two of them. We have not adopted this new fashion
yet, but we shall do it presently. We shall not think
it out; we shall merely conform, and let it go at
that. We get our notions and habits and opinions
from outside influences; we do not have to study
them out.</p>

<p class='c034'>Our table manners, and company manners, and
street manners change from time to time, but the
changes are not reasoned out; we merely notice and
conform. We are creatures of outside influences;
as a rule we do not think, we only imitate. We cannot
invent standards that will stick; what we mistake
for standards are only fashions, and perishable.
We may continue to admire them, but we drop the
<span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span>use of them. We notice this in literature. Shakespeare
is a standard, and fifty years ago we used to
write tragedies which we couldn’t tell from--from
somebody else’s; but we don’t do it any more, now.
Our prose standard, three quarters of a century ago,
was ornate and diffuse; some authority or other
changed it in the direction of compactness and simplicity,
and conformity followed, without argument.
The historical novel starts up suddenly, and sweeps
the land. Everybody writes one, and the nation is
glad. We had historical novels before; but nobody
read them, and the rest of us conformed--without reasoning
it out. We are conforming in the other way,
now, because it is another case of everybody.</p>

<p class='c034'>The outside influences are always pouring in upon
us, and we are always obeying their orders and
accepting their verdicts. The Smiths like the new
play; the Joneses go to see it, and they copy the
Smith verdict. Morals, religions, politics, get their
following from surrounding influences and atmospheres,
almost entirely; not from study, not from
thinking. A man must and will have his own
approval first of all, in each and every moment and
circumstance of his life--even if he must repent of a
self-approved act the moment after its commission,
in order to get his self-approval <em>again</em>: but, speaking
in general terms, a man’s self-approval in the large
concerns of life has its source in the approval of the
peoples about him, and not in a searching personal
examination of the matter. Mohammedans are
Mohammedans because they are born and reared
among that sect, not because they have thought it
<span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>out and can furnish sound reasons for being Mohammedans;
we know why Catholics are Catholics;
why Presbyterians are Presbyterians; why Baptists
are Baptists; why Mormons are Mormons; why
thieves are thieves; why monarchists are monarchists;
why Republicans are Republicans and
Democrats, Democrats. We know it is a matter of
association and sympathy, not reasoning and examination;
that hardly a man in the world has an
opinion upon morals, politics, or religion which he
got otherwise than through his associations and sympathies.
Broadly speaking, there are none but corn-pone
opinions. And broadly speaking, corn-pone
stands for self-approval. Self-approval is acquired
mainly from the approval of other people. The
result is conformity. Sometimes conformity has a
sordid business interest--the bread-and-butter interest--but
not in most cases, I think. I think that in
the majority of cases it is unconscious and not calculated;
that it is born of the human being’s natural
yearning to stand well with his fellows and have
their inspiring approval and praise--a yearning
which is commonly so strong and so insistent that
it cannot be effectually resisted, and must have its
way.</p>

<p class='c034'>A political emergency brings out the corn-pone
opinion in fine force in its two chief varieties--the
pocketbook variety, which has its origin in self-interest,
and the bigger variety, the sentimental
variety--the one which can’t bear to be outside the
pale; can’t bear to be in disfavor; can’t endure the
averted face and the cold shoulder; wants to stand
<span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>well with his friends, wants to be smiled upon,
wants to be welcome, wants to hear the precious
words, “<em>He’s</em> on the right track!” Uttered, perhaps
by an ass, but still an ass of high degree, an ass whose
approval is gold and diamonds to a smaller ass, and
confers glory and honor and happiness, and membership
in the herd. For these gauds many a man
will dump his life-long principles into the street, and
his conscience along with them. We have seen it
happen. In some millions of instances.</p>

<p class='c034'>Men think they think upon great political questions,
and they do; but they think with their party,
not independently; they read its literature, but not
that of the other side; they arrive at convictions,
but they are drawn from a partial view of the matter
in hand and are of no particular value. They swarm
with their party, they feel with their party, they are
happy in their party’s approval; and where the
party leads they will follow, whether for right and
honor, or through blood and dirt and a mush of
mutilated morals.</p>

<p class='c034'>In our late canvass half of the nation passionately
believed that in silver lay salvation, the other half
as passionately believed that that way lay destruction.
Do you believe that a tenth part of the people,
on either side, had any rational excuse for having
an opinion about the matter at all? I studied that
mighty question to the bottom--came out empty.
Half of our people passionately believe in high tariff,
the other half believe otherwise. Does this mean
study and examination, or only feeling? The latter,
I think. I have deeply studied that question, too--and
<span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>didn’t arrive. We all do no end of feeling, and
we mistake it for thinking. And out of it we get an
aggregation which we consider a boon. Its name is
Public Opinion. It is held in reverence. It settles
everything. Some think it the Voice of God.</p>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div>THE END</div>
  </div>
</div>

<div class='pbb'>
 <hr class='pb c000' />
</div>
<p class='c034'><a id='endnote'></a></p>
<div>

<div class='nf-center-c0'>
<div class='nf-center c023'>
    <div><span class='large'>Transcriber’s Note</span></div>
  </div>
</div>

<p class='c034'>Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.</p>

<table class='table2' summary=''>
<colgroup>
<col width='12%' />
<col width='69%' />
<col width='18%' />
</colgroup>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_ix.22'></a><a href='#corrix.22'>ix.22</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>did not waste his chances[.]</td>
    <td class='c041'>Added.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_ix.24'></a><a href='#corrix.24'>ix.24</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>on the list of Americ[n/a]n authors</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_8.10'></a><a href='#corr8.10'>8.10</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>and yet wi[ll/th] all that silence</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_10.14'></a><a href='#corr10.14'>10.14</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>the col[l]ossal myths of history</td>
    <td class='c041'>Removed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_47.14'></a><a href='#corr47.14'>47.14</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>They all sat in a c[ri/ir]cle</td>
    <td class='c041'>Transposed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_71.13'></a><a href='#corr71.13'>71.13</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>he wrote [i/a]t once to the Emperor</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_97.7'></a><a href='#corr97.7'>97.7</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>men’s conception of the D[ie/ei]ty</td>
    <td class='c041'>Transposed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_108.24'></a><a href='#corr108.24'>108.24</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>in his bay window![”]</td>
    <td class='c041'>Added.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_122.20'></a><a href='#corr122.20'>122.20</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>breezes would quiver the fo[il/li]age</td>
    <td class='c041'>Transposed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_209.15'></a><a href='#corr209.15'>209.15</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>most lavishly u[n/p]holstered</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_217.27'></a><a href='#corr217.27'>217.27</a></td>
    <td class='c008'><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"><i>[“]Il  y a une ascenseur,”</i></span></td>
    <td class='c041'>Added.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_260.12'></a><a href='#corr260.12'>260.12</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>The Ka[si/is]er’s claim was paid</td>
    <td class='c041'>Transposed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_268.13'></a><a href='#corr268.13'>268.13</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>our war work and our her[io/oi]sms</td>
    <td class='c041'>Transposed.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_275.21'></a><a href='#corr275.21'>275.21</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>[“]I deny emphatically</td>
    <td class='c041'>Added.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_277.28'></a><a href='#corr277.28'>277.28</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>Christian virtues[:/.]</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_303.3'></a><a href='#corr303.3'>303.3</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>the[m/n] moved them to fall</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
  <tr>
    <td class='c008'><a id='c_401.9'></a><a href='#corr401.9'>401.9</a></td>
    <td class='c008'>i[s/t] is admired</td>
    <td class='c041'>Replaced.</td>
  </tr>
</table>

</div>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68604 ***</div>
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