A 



SPEECH AT THE SCOTTISH BANQUET IN LONDON. 



T the anniversary festival of the Scottish Corporation of London on 

 Monday evening, in response to the toast of " The Ladies," Mark Twain 

 replied. The following is his speech as reported in the London Observer: — 



" I am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond to this especial toast, to ' The 

 Ladies,' or to women if you please, for that is the preferable term, perhaps ; ij; is certainly the older, 

 and therefore the more entitled to reverence. (Laughter.) I have noticed that the Bible, with that 

 plain,. blunt honesty which is such a'conspicuous characteristic of the Scriptures, is always particular 

 to never refer to even the illustrious mother of all mankind herself as a ' lady,' but speaks of her 

 as a woman. (Laughter.) It is odd, but you will find it is so. I am peculiarly proud pf this honor, 

 because I think that the toast to women is one which, by right and by every rule of gallantry, should 

 take precedence of all others — of the army, of the navy, of even royalty itself — perhaps, though the 

 latter is not necessary in this day and in this land, for the reason that, tacitly, you do drink a broad,^ 

 general health to all good women when you drink the health of the Queen of England and the 

 Princess of Wales. (Loud cheers.) I have in mind a poem just now which is familiar to you all, 

 familiar to everybody. And what an inspiration that was (and how instantly the present toast 

 recalls the verses to all our minds) when the most noble, the most gracious, the purest, and sweetest 

 of all poets says : — 



"'Woman! O woman I er 



Worn—' 



(Laughter.) However, you remember the lines ; and you remember how feelingly, how daintily, 

 how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up before you, feature by feature, the ideal of a true and 

 perfect woman ; and how, as you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into worship 

 of the intellect that could create so fair a thing oUt of mere breath, mere words. And you call to 

 mind now, as I speak, how the poet, with stern fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers 

 this beautiful child of his heart and his brain over to the trials and the sorrows that must come 

 to all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how the pathetic story culminates in that apos- 

 trophe — so wild, so regretful, so full of mournful retrospection. The lines run thus : — x 



" ' Alas I— alas I— a— alas I 

 Alas 1 alas I' 



— and so on. (Laughter.) I do not remember the rest ; but, taken altogether, it seems to me that 

 poem is the noblest tribute to woman that human genius has ever brought forth — (laughter) — and I 

 feel that if I were to talk hours I could not do my great theme completer or more graceful justice 

 than I have now done in simply quoting that poet's matchless words. (Renewed laughter.) The 

 phases of the womanly nature are infinite in their variety. Take any type of woman, and you shall 

 find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to love. And you shall find the 

 whole joining you heart and hand. Who was more patriotic than Joan of Arc ? Who was braver? 

 Who has given us a grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion ? Ah ! you remember, you remem- 

 ber well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief swept over us all when Joan of Arc 

 fell at Waterloo. (Much laughter.) Who does not sorrow for the loss of Sappho, the sweet singer 

 of Israel? (Laughter.) Who among us does not miss the gentle ministrations, the softening influ- 

 ences, the humble piety of Lucretia Borgia ? (Laughter.) Who can join in the heartless libel that 



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