by Mark Twain
"Do I claim that the substitute which I am proposing is without defect? No. It has a serious defect. My fellow Revolters are struggling for one thing, and for one thing only
-- the shortening and simplifying of the spelling. That is to say, they have not gone to the root of the matter -- and in my opinion the reform which they are urging is hardly worthwhile. The trouble is not with the spelling; it goes deeper than that; it is with the alphabet. There is but one way to scientifically and adequately reform the orthography, and that is by reforming the alphabet; then the orthography will reform itself. What is needed is that each letter of the alphabet shall have a perfectly definite sound, and that this sound shall never be changed or modified without the addition of an accent, or other visible sign, to indicate precisely and exactly the nature of the modification. The Germans have this kind of an alphabet. Every letter of it has a perfectly definite sound, and when that sound is modified an umlaut or other sign is added to indicate the precise shade of the modification. The several values of the German letters can be learned by the ordinary child in a few days, and after that, for ninety years, that child can always correctly spell any German word it hears, without ever having been taught to do it by another person, or being obliged to apply to a spelling book for help.
"But the English alphabet is a pure insanity. It can hardly spell any word in the language with any large degree of certainty. When you see the word chaldron in an English book no foreigner can guess how to pronounce it; neither can any native. The reader knows that it is pronounced chaldron -- or kaldron, or kawldron -- but neither he nor his grandmother can tell which is the right way without looking in the dictionary; and when he looks in the dictionary the chances are a hundred to one that the dictionary itself doesn't know which is the right way, but will furnish him all three and let him take his choice. When you find the word bow in an English book, standing by itself and without any informing text built around it, there is no American or Englishman alive, nor any dictionary, that can tell you how to pronounce that word. It may mean a gesture of salutation and rhyme with cow; and it may also mean an obsolete military weapon and rhyme with blow. But let us not enlarge upon this. The sillinesses of the English alphabet are quite beyond enumeration. That alphabet consists of nothing whatever except sillinesses. I venture to repeat that whereas the English orthography needs reforming and simplifying, the English alphabet needs it two or three million times more."
Uncle Cadmus sat down, and the Opposition rose and combated his reasonings in the usual way. Those people said that they had always been used to the hieroglyphics; that the hieroglyphics had dear and sacred associations for them; that they loved to sit on a barrel under an umbrella in the brilliant sun of Egypt and spell out the owls and eagles and alligators and saw-teeth, and take an hour and a half to the Lord's Prayer, and weep with romantic emotion at the thought that they had, at most, but eight or ten years between themselves and the grave for the enjoyment of this ecstasy; and that then possibly these Revolters would shove the ancient signs and symbols from the main track and equip the people with a lightning-express reformed alphabet that would leave the hieroglyphic wheelbarrow a hundred thousand miles behind and have not a damned association which could compel a tear, even if tears and diamonds stood at the same price in the market
Something About Repentance
(1908)
IT IS curious -- the misassociation of certain words. For instance, the word Repentance. Through want of reflection we associate it exclusively with Sin. We get the notion early, and keep it always, that we repent of bad deeds only; whereas we do a formidably large business in repenting of good deeds which we have done. Often when we repent of a sin, we do it perfunctorily, from principle, coldly and from the head; but when we repent of a good deed the repentance comes hot and bitter and straight from the heart. Often when we repent of a sin, we can forgive ourselves and drop the matter out of mind; but when we repent of a good deed, we seldom get peace -- we go on repenting to the end. And the repentance is so perennially young and strong and vivid and vigorous! A great benefaction conferred with your whole heart upon an ungrateful man -- with what immortal persistence and never-cooling energy do you repent of that!
Repentance of a sin is a pale, poor, perishable thing compared with it.
I am quite sure that the average man is built just as I am; otherwise I should not be making this revelation of my inside. I say the average man and stop there; for I am quite certain that there are people who do not repent of their good deeds when the return they get for them is treachery and ingratitude. I think that these few ought to be in heaven; they are in the way here. In my time I have committed several millions of sins.
Many of them I probably repented of -- I do not remember now; others I was partly minded to repent of, but it did not seem worthwhile; all of them but the recent ones and a few scattering former ones I have forgotten. In my time I have done eleven good deeds. I remember all of them, four of them with crystal clearness. These four I repent of whenever I think of them -- and it is not seldomer than fifty-two times a year. I repent of them in the same old original furious way, undiminished, always. If I wake up away in the night, they are there, waiting and ready; and they keep me company till the morning.
I have not committed any sin that has lasted me like this save one; and have not repented of any sin with the unmodifying earnestness and sincerity with which I have repented of these four gracious and beautiful good deeds.
Possibly you who are reading these paragraphs are of those few who have got mislaid and ought to be in heaven. In that case you will not understand what I have been saying and will have no sympathy with it; but your neighbor will, if he is fifty years old.
From an English Notebook
In 1872 Mark Twain went to England intending to write a book, as Mr. Paine says, about "its people and institutions." For a number of reasons he did not write the book but one of the notebooks which he kept during his visit has been preserved, and these extracts have been taken from it. B. DV.
I THE ALBERT MEMORIAL
WE drove through Hyde Park, and all of a sudden a magnificent structure burst upon us. We got out and stood gazing at it in mute wonder. It was a tall, ornate pinnacle, pierced with arches -- and flanked by noble groups of statuary; and this airy, graceful pinnacle was splendid with gilding and richly colored mosaics, from its base to its summit. It was the brightest, freshest, loveliest bit of gigantic jewelry in all this battered and blackened old city. The fascinated sun fondled it, petted it, glorified it. The very railings that enclosed the spacious marble platform it stood upon were sumptuously gilded. At the four corners of these railings, elevated upon great marble pedestals, were four groups of the groups of statuary I have mentioned -- and the principal. All clean, and white and new. And all huge, imposing figures. And so perfectly wrought and so happily grouped that from whatever point you examined them they were symmetrical, harmonious, guiltless of blemish. One group represented Asia -- a stately female figure seated upon a prostrate elephant, and surrounded by Persians, Chinese, Indian warriors, and an Arab reading the Koran. Another group represented Europe -- a woman seated upon a bull, and round about her other female figures typifying England and the States of the Continent. A third group represents America -- an Indian woman seated upon a buffalo which is careering through the long prairie grass; and about her are half a dozen figures representing the United States, Canada, South America, and so forth. The fourth group represents Africa -- an Egyptian princess seated upon a camel, and surrounded by other typical figures. One cannot convey with words the majesty of these stony, creatures -- the ease, the dignity, the grace, that sit upon them so royally.
And there is no slurring over of anything -- every little detail is perfect. The fringes that depend from the camels' covering fall as limp and pliant as if they were woven instead of chiseled; no 'prentice work is visible anywhere.
We approached and entered the enclosure and mingled with the moving multitude,
to make a close examination of the monumental spire. At its corners stood four more beautiful groups of statuary. All around its base ran a marble frieze -- a procession of life-size figures of all the mighty poets, painters, architects the ages have given to the world -- Homer, Virgil, Dante, Michael Angelo, Raphael -- all the world's supremely gifted men. Under the rich vault stood a massy pedestal, and through the gilded arches the sunlight streamed upon it. We moved away again, and stood outside the railing to feast again upon the general view.
I said to my comrade, "Tell me what it is."
"It is a monument -- a memorial."
"Yes, I see -- but to whom?"
"Guess."
"Guess -- anyone can guess it. There is only one name worthy of it -- only just one. And I pay the humble homage of a stranger, and offer his gratitude, to the nation that so honors her great son, the world's great teacher -- it is Shakespeare! Glory to old England!"
"Bah! What an innocent you are! It is Prince Albert!"
It was too true. Napoleon's tomb at Paris has long ranked as the most sumptuous testimonial to departed greatness that Europe could show -- but it is insignificant compared to this memorial which England has erected to keep green in the affectionate admiration of future generations a most excellent foreign gentleman who was a happy type of the Good, and the Kind, the Well-Meaning, the Mediocre, the Commonplace -- and who did no more for his country than five hundred tradesmen did in his own time, whose works are forgotten. The finest monument in the world erected to glorify -- the Commonplace. It is the most genuinely humorous idea I have met with in this grave land. Presently the statue of the good, kind, well-meaning gentleman will be placed upon the monumental pedestal -- and then what a satire upon human glory it will be to see Homer and Shakespeare and Milton and Michael Angelo and all that long marble array of the world's demigods around the base, bracing their shoulders to the genial work and supporting their brother in his high seat.
I still feel some lingering discomfort that this princely structure was not built for Shakespeare -- but after all, maybe he does not need it as much as the other.
We turned about and saw a prodigious building, constructed of cream-colored stone -- and every stone in the pile curiously and elaborately ornamented with the chisel
-- no end of flowers, and birds, and reptiles, all carved in painstaking detail. The building will seat ten thousand persons, and great concerts are given there. Princes, dukes, earls, and bankers buy boxes there for 999 years, just as they would buy a piece of real estate, and they pay $5,000 for the said box and will transmit it to their posterity. This palatial place is called Albert Hall, and was erected as just one more testimonial to departed mediocrity. Well, it is best to have a supply of memorials, to guard against accidents. I mean to have an assortment of tombstones myself.
We passed Into the International Exhibition and found several busts and pictures of Prince Albert. Glory is a singular thing. I find only three individuals prodigiously glorified in monumental stone here, out of England's great long list of immortal names --
the mighty Wellington, the peerless Nelson, and the kindly foreign gentleman who reared a large family of excellent children, dabbled in amateur agriculture, law and science, distributed prizes to mechanics' societies, and gave a notable impulse to industry by admiring it.
The inscription on the splendid monument yonder reads:
"QUEEN VICTORIA AND HER PEOPLE
TO THE MEMORY OF ALBERT, PRINCE CONSORT,
AS A TRIBUTE OF THEIR GRATITUDE
FOR A LIFE DEVOTED TO THE PUBLIC GOOD."
It is the oddest reversing of obligations that one can imagine. England found Albert very obscure and rather stinted in worldly goods for one in his social position.
She gave him wealth, marred him to a young and beautiful queen and paid him homage all his life as the second personage in the greatest empire of this age. These were not trifles. There must be a mistake somewhere. Doubtless the Prince designed this monument himself, and intended to put on it this inscription:
"PRINCE ALBERT TO THE QUEEN AND HER PEOPLE,
AS A TRIBUTE OF HIS GRATITUDE FOR
INCALCULABLE BENEFITS CONFERRED UPON HIM."
II OLD SAINT PAUL'S
Who can look upon this venerable edifice, with its clustering memories and old traditions, without emotion! Who can contemplate its scarred and blackened walls without drifting insensibly into dreams of the historic past! Who can hold to be trivial even the least detail or appurtenance of this stately national altar! It is with diffidence that I approach the work of description, it is with humility that I offer the thoughts that crowd upon me.
Upon arriving at Saint Paul's, the first thing that bursts upon the beholder is the back yard. This fine work of art is forty-three feet long by thirty-four and a half feet wide -
- and all enclosed with real iron railings. The pavement is of fine oolite, or skylight, or some other stone of that geologic period, and is laid almost flat on the ground, in places.
The stones are exactly square, and it is thought that they were made so by design; though of course, as in all matters of antiquarian science there are wide differences of opinion about this. The architect of the pavement was Morgan Jones, of No. 4
Piccadilly, Cheapside, Islington. He died in the reign of Richard III, of the prevailing disorder. An ax fell on his neck. The coloring of the pavement is very beautiful, and will immediately attract the notice of the visitor. Part of it is white and the other part black.
The part that is white has been washed. This was done upon the occasion of the coronation of George II, and the person who did it was knighted, as the reader will already have opined. The iron railings cannot be too much admired. They were designed and constructed by Ralph Benson, of No. 9 Grace Church Street, Fen Church Street, Upper Terrace, Tottenham Court Road, Felter Lane, London, C. E., by special appointment blacksmith to His Royal Majesty, George III, of gracious memory, and were done at his own shop, by his own hands, and under his own personal supervision.
Relics of this great artist's inspiration are exceedingly rare, and are valued at enormous sums; however, two shovels and a horseshoe made by him are on file at the British Museum, and no stranger should go away from London without seeing them. One of the shovels is undoubtedly genuine, but all authorities agree that the other one is spurious.
It is not known which is the spurious one, and this is unfortunate, for nothing connected with this great man can be deemed of trifling importance. It is said that he was buried at Westminster Abbey, but was taken up and hanged in chains at Tyburn at the time of the Restoration, under the impression that he was Cromwell. But this is considered doubtful, by some, because he was not yet born at the time of the Restoration. The railings are nine feet three inches high, from the top of the stone pediment to the spearheads that form the apex, and twelve feet four inches high from the ground to the apex, the stone pediment being three feet one inch high, all of solid stone. The railings are not merely stood up on the pediment, but are mortised in, in the most ravishing manner. It was originally intended to make the railings two inches higher than they are, but the idea was finally abandoned, for some reason or other. This is greatly to be regretted, because it makes the fence out of proportion to the rest of Saint Paul's, and seriously mars the general effect. The spearheads upon the tops of the railings were gilded upon the death of Henry VIII, out of respect for the memory of that truly great King. The artist who performed the work was knighted by the regency, and hanged by Queen Mary when she came into power. No charge is made for contemplating the railings, or looking through them or climbing over them -- which is in marked and generous contrast to some of the other sights of London. All you have to do is to apply to a member of the Common Council and get a letter to the Lord Mayor, who will give you a note to the Lord High Chamberlain of the Exchequer, who will grant you a pass, good for two days, together with a return ticket. This is much simpler than the system observed by the custodians of some of t
he other sights of London. You can walk, but it is best to go in a cab, for there is no place in London which is less than two miles and a half from any other place. I am not speaking heedlessly, but from experience. At all the other public buildings and parks in London, there is an arched and prodigious gateway which is special and sacred to the Queen, who is either sixty feet high or the gateways don't fit -- but at Saint Paul's the case is different. There is no special gate for the Queen, and so I do not know how she gets in there. It must be very inconvenient to go through a common highway when one is not used to it.
The stone pediment upon which the iron railings stand was designed and erected by William Marlow, of 14 Threadneedle Street, Paternoster Row, St. Giles's, Belgravia, W. C., and is composed of alternate layers of rock, one above the other, and all cemented together in the most compact and impressive manner. The style of its architecture is a combination of the Pre-Raphaelite and the Renaissance -- just enough of the Pre-Raphaelite to make it firm and substantial, and just enough of the Renaissance to impart to the whole a calm and gracious expression. There is nothing like this stone wall in England. We have no such artists nowadays. To find true art, we must go back to the past. Let the visitor note the tone of this wall, and the feeling. No work of art can be intelligently and enjoyably contemplated unless you know about tone and feeling; unless you know all about tone and feeling, and can tell at a glance which is the tone and which is the feeling -- and can talk about it with the guidebook shut up. I will venture to say that there is more tone in that stone wall than was ever hurled into a stone wall before; and as for feeling, it is just suffocated with it. As a whole, this fence is absolutely without its equal. If Michael Angelo could have seen this fence, would he have wasted his years sitting on a stone worshiping the cathedral of Florence? No; he would have spent his life gazing at this fence, and he would have taken a wax impression of it with him when he died. Michael Angelo and I may be considered extravagant, but as for me, if you simply mention art, I cannot be calm. I can go down on my knees before one of those decayed and venerable old masters that you have to put a sign on to tell which side of it you are looking at, and I do not want any bread, I do not want any meat, I do not want any air to breathe -- I can live, in the tone and the feeling of it. Expression -- expression is the thing -- in art. I do not care what it expresses, and I cannot most always sometimes tell, generally, but expression is what I worship, it is what I glory in, with all my impetuous nature. All the traveling world are just like me.