If the cholera or black plague should come to these
shores, perhaps the bulk of the nation would pray
to be delivered from it, but the rest would put their
trust in the Health Board of the City of New York.
I read in the papers within the last day or two of
a poor young girl who they said was a leper.
Did the people in that populous section of the country
where she was—did they put their trust in
God? The girl was afflicted with the leprosy,
a disease which cannot be communicated from one person
to another.
Yet, instead of putting their trust in God, they harried
that poor creature, shelterless and friendless, from
place to place, exactly as they did in the Middle
Ages, when they made lepers wear bells, so that people
could be warned of their approach and avoid them.
Perhaps those people in the Middle Ages thought they
were putting their trust in God.
The President ordered the removal of that motto from
the coin, and I thought that it was well. I
thought that overstatement should not stay there.
But I think it would better read, “Within certain
judicious limitations we trust in God,” and
if there isn’t enough room on the coin for this,
why, enlarge the coin.
Now I want to tell a story about jumping at conclusions.
It was told to me by Bram Stoker, and it concerns
a christening. There was a little clergyman
who was prone to jump at conclusions sometimes.
One day he was invited to officiate at a christening.
He went. There sat the relatives—intelligent-looking
relatives they were. The little clergyman’s
instinct came to him to make a great speech.
He was given to flights of oratory that way—a
very dangerous thing, for often the wings which take
one into clouds of oratorical enthusiasm are wax and
melt up there, and down you come.
But the little clergyman couldn’t resist.
He took the child in his arms, and, holding it, looked
at it a moment. It wasn’t much of a child.
It was little, like a sweet-potato. Then the
little clergyman waited impressively, and then:
“I see in your countenances,” he said,
“disappointment of him. I see you are disappointed
with this baby. Why? Because he is so little.
My friends, if you had but the power of looking into
the future you might see that great things may come
of little things. There is the great ocean,
holding the navies of the world, which comes from
little drops of water no larger than a woman’s
tears. There are the great constellations in
the sky, made up of little bits of stars. Oh,
if you could consider his future you might see that
he might become the greatest poet of the universe,
the greatest warrior the world has ever known, greater
than Caesar, than Hannibal, than—er—er”
(turning to the father)—“what’s
his name?”
The father hesitated, then whispered back: “His
name? Well, his name is Mary Ann.”
At a beefsteak dinner, given by
artists, caricaturists, and humorists of
New York City, April 18, 1908, Mr. Clemens, Mr. H.
H. Rogers, and Mr. Patrick McCarren were
the guests of honor. Each wore a white
apron, and each made a short speech.
In the matter of courage we all have our limits.
