Happiness, food, shelter, clothing, wholesale labor, modest and rational ambitions, honesty, kindliness, hospitality, love of ******* and limitless courage to fight for it, composure and fortitude in time of disaster, patience in time of hardship and privation, absence of noise and brag in time of victory, contentment with a humble and peaceful life void of insane excitements--if there is a higher and better form of civilization than this, I am not aware of it and do not know where to look for it.I suppose we have the habit of imagining that a lot of artistic, intellectual and other artificialities must be added, or it isn't complete.We and the English have these latter; but as we lack the great bulk of these others, I think the Boer civilization is the best of the two.My idea of our civilization is that it is a shabby poor thing and full of cruelties, vanities, arrogancies, meannesses, and hypocrisies.As for the word, I hate the sound of it, for it conveys a lie; and as for the thing itself, I wish it was in hell, where it belongs.
Provided we could get something better in the place of it.But that is not possible, perhaps.Poor as it is, it is better than real savagery, therefore we must stand by it, extend it, and (in public) praise it.
And so we must not utter any hateful word about England in these days, nor fail to hope that she will win in this war, for her defeat and fall would be an irremediable disaster for the mangy human race....Naturally, then, I am for England; but she is profoundly in the wrong, Joe, and no (instructed) Englishman doubts it.At least that is my belief.
Maybe I managed to make myself misunderstood, as to the Osteopathists.
I wanted to know how the men impress you.As to their Art, I know fairly well about that, and should not value Hartford's opinion of it; nor a physician's; nor that of another who proposed to enlighten me out of his ignorance.Opinions based upon theory, superstition and ignorance are not very precious.
Livy and the others are off for the country for a day or two.
Love to you all MARK.
The next letter affords a pleasant variation.Without doubt it was written on realizing that good nature and enthusiasm had led him into indiscretion.This was always happening to him, and letters like this are not infrequent, though generally less entertaining.
To Mr.Ann, in London:
WELLINGTON COURT, Feb.23, '00.
DEAR MR.ANN,--Upon sober second thought, it won't do!--I withdraw that letter.Not because I said anything in it which is not true, for Ididn't; but because when I allow my name to be used in forwarding a stock-scheme I am assuming a certain degree of responsibility as toward the investor, and I am not willing to do that.I have another objection, a purely selfish one: trading upon my name, whether the enterprise scored a success or a failure would damage me.I can't afford that; even the Archbishop of Canterbury couldn't afford it, and he has more character to spare than I have.(Ah, a happy thought! If he would sign the letter with me that would change the whole complexion of the thing, of course.
I do not know him, yet I would sign any commercial scheme that he would sign.As he does not know me, it follows that he would sign anything that I would sign.This is unassailable logic--but really that is all that can be said for it.)No, I withdraw the letter.This virgin is pure up to date, and is going to remain so.
Ys sincerely, S.L.C.
To Rev.J.H.Twichell, in Hartford:
WELLINGTON COURT, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, Mch.4, '00.
DEAR JOE,-- Henry Robinson's death is a sharp wound to me, and it goes very deep.I had a strong affection for him, and I think he had for me.
Every Friday, three-fourths of the year for 16 years he was of the billiard-party in our house.When we come home, how shall we have billiard-nights again--with no Ned Bunce and no Henry Robinson?
I believe I could not endure that.We must find another use for that room.Susy is gone, George is gone, Libby Hamersley, Ned Bunce, Henry Robinson.The friends are passing, one by one; our house, where such warm blood and such dear blood flowed so freely, is become a cemetery.
But not in any repellent sense.Our dead are welcome there; their life made it beautiful, their death has hallowed it, we shall have them with us always, and there will be no parting.
It was a moving address you made over Ward Cheney--that fortunate, youth!
Like Susy, he got out of life all that was worth the living, and got his great reward before he had crossed the tropic frontier of dreams and entered the Sahara of fact.The deep consciousness of Susy's good fortune is a constant comfort to me.
London is happy-hearted at last.The British victories have swept the clouds away and there are no uncheerful faces.For three months the private dinner parties (we go to no public ones) have been Lodges of Sorrow, and just a little depressing sometimes; but now they are smiley and animated again.Joe, do you know the Irish gentleman and the Irish lady, the Scotch gentleman and the Scotch lady? These are darlings, every one.Night before last it was all Irish--24.One would have to travel far to match their ease and sociability and animation and sparkle and absence of shyness and self-consciousness.
