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Rh, 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:— [Applause]