articulate, and take refuge in the safe retreat of silence, but for that consideration of which I spoke in the beginning. One can never tell what excellent things a man might have said who holds his tongue, and I remember with what agreement I heard Mr. Lowell at the Savage Club, in London, remark that all of his best speeches were made in a carriage going home at night.
But I have not the conceit to believe that your splendid welcome of this evening is intended solely for me or for my writings. In truth, although I say this in a certain confidence and do not wish the observation to go far beyond this banquet chamber, I have no high opinion of myself. The true artist can never lose sight of the abyss which separates his ideal from that which he has realized; the thing he sought and strove to do, from the actual poem or picture he has accomplished. But I am confidently and joyously aware, that in my comparatively unimportant person you salute to-night, with the large-heartedness characteristic of your land, and of the Lotus Club in particular, the heart of that other and older England which also loves you well, and through me to-night warmly and sincerely greets you.
Moreover, the lowliest ambassador derives a measure of dignity from the commission of a mighty sovereign, and the conviction that supports me this evening is that, in my unworthy self, the men of letters of the cis-atlantic and trans-altantic lands are here joining hands, and that, if I may in humility speak for my literary countrymen, they also are here, and now warmly salute those of your race. Not the less warmly, because America has decreed a signal deed of justice toward English authors in her copyright act. Some years ago I wrote two little verses in a preface of a book, dedicated to my numerous friends in America, which ran like this:—
"Thou new Great Britain, famous, free and bright,
West of the West, sleepeth my ancient East;
Our sunsets make thy noons, day time and night
Meet in sweet morning promise on thy breast.
Fulfil the promise, lady of wide lands,
Where with thine own an English singer ranks;
I who found favor from thy sovereign hands,
Kissed them, and at thy feet lay this for thanks."
[Applause]
