MARK TWAIN

me Victoria Cross—who gets it? Intrepid commoners?
Do not deceive yourself. Examine the V.C. records.

The kingly office is entitled to no respect. It was orig-
inally procured by the highwayman's methods; it remains
a perpetuated crime, can never be anything but the sym-
bol of a crime. It is no more entitled to respect than is
the flag of a pirate. A monarch when good is entitled to
the consideration which we accord to a pirate who keeps
Sunday School between crimes; when bad he is entitled to
none at all. But if you cross a king with a prostitute the
resulting mongrel perfectly satisfies the English idea of
nobility. The cltical houses of Great Britain of today are
mainly derived from this gaudy combination.

To this day Englishmen revere the memory of Nell
Cwynne, and speak of her with a smack of unconscious
envy. They seem to consider her as one of the peculiarly
fortunate of this world. They keep her portrait at Hamp-
ton Court, among some more treasures of the same sort;
they study her picture as history with affectionate pride;
they value any rag or relic which her touch has made
holy; they are as excited and pleased over any new fact
concerning her as a devotee would be over a garment
which his favorite saint had used.

Mark Twain at this time was writing his
Yankee in Kwg Arthur's Court—a terrible ar-
raignment of royalty and nobility—and his mind
was filled with instances and examples. His blood
grew hot remembering them.

There are shams and shams; there are frauds and
frauds, but the iransparcntcst of all is the sceptcred one.
We sec monarchs meet and go through solemn cere-
monies, farces, with straight countenances; but it is not
possible to imagine them meeting in private and not
laughing in each other's faces.

The system has for its end the degradation of the many