He left, immediately following the Pilgrim luncheon, with Hon. Robert
P. Porter, of the London Times, for Oxford, to remain his guest there
during the various ceremonies. The encenia--the ceremony of conferring
the degrees--occurred at the Sheldonian Theater the following morning,
June 26, 1907.
It was a memorable affair. Among those who were to receive degrees that
morning besides Samuel Clemens were: Prince Arthur of Connaught; Prime
Minister Campbell-Bannerman; Whitelaw Reid; Rudyard Kipling; Sidney Lee;
Sidney Colvin; Lord Archbishop of Armagh, Primate of Ireland; Sir Norman
Lockyer; Auguste Rodin, the sculptor; Saint-Saens, and Gen. William
Booth, of the Salvation Army-something more than thirty, in all, of the
world's distinguished citizens.
The candidates assembled at Magdalen College, and led by Lord Curzon,
the Chancellor, and clad in their academic plumage, filed in radiant
procession to the Sheldonian Theater, a group of men such as the world
seldom sees collected together. The London Standard said of it:
So brilliant and so interesting was the list of those who had been
selected by Oxford University on Convocation to receive degrees,
'honoris causa', in this first year of Lord Curzon's chancellorship,
that it is small wonder that the Sheldonian Theater was besieged
today at an early hour.
Shortly after 11 o'clock the organ started playing the strains of
“God Save the King,” and at once a great volume of sound arose as
the anthem was taken up by the undergraduates and the rest of the
assemblage. Every one stood up as, headed by the mace of office,
the procession slowly filed into the theater, under the leadership
of Lord Curzon, in all the glory of his robes of office, the long
black gown heavily embroidered with gold, the gold-tasseled mortar-
board, and the medals on his breast forming an admirable setting,
thoroughly in keeping with the dignity and bearing of the late
Viceroy of India. Following him came the members of Convocation, a
goodly number consisting of doctors of divinity, whose robes of
scarlet and black enhanced the brilliance of the scene. Robes of
salmon and scarlet-which proclaim the wearer to be a doctor of civil
law--were also seen in numbers, while here and there was a gown of
gray and scarlet, emblematic of the doctorate of science or of
letters.
The encenia is an impressive occasion; but it is not a silent one. There
is a splendid dignity about it; but there goes with it all a sort of
Greek chorus of hilarity, the time-honored prerogative of the Oxford
undergraduate, who insists on having his joke and his merriment at
the expense of those honored guests. The degrees of doctor of law were
conferred first. Prince Arthur was treated with proper dignity by the
gallery; but when Whitelaw Reid stepped forth a voice shouted,
“Where's your Star-spangled Banner?” and when England's Prime
Minister-Campbell-Bannerman--came forward some one shouted, “What about
the House of Lords?” and so they kept it up, cheering and chaffing,
until General Booth was introduced as the “Passionate advocate of the
dregs of the people, leader of the submerged tenth,” and “general of the
Salvation Army,” when the place broke into a perfect storm of applause,
a storm that a few minutes later became, according to the Daily News,
“a veritable cyclone,” for Mark Twain, clad in his robe of scarlet and
gray, had been summoned forward to receive the highest academic honors
which the world has to give. The undergraduates went wild then. There
was such a mingling of yells and calls and questions, such as, “Have you
brought the jumping Frog with you?” “Where is the Ascot Cup?” “Where
are the rest of the Innocents?” that it seemed as if it would not
be possible to present him at all; but, finally, Chancellor Curzon
addressed him (in Latin), “Most amiable and charming sir, you shake the
sides of the whole world with your merriment,” and the great degree was
conferred. If only Tom Sawyer could have seen him then! If only Olivia
Clemens could have sat among those who gave him welcome! But life is not
like that. There is always an incompleteness somewhere, and the shadow
across the path.
Rudyard Kipling followed--another supreme favorite, who was hailed with
the chorus, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” and then came Saint-Satins.
The prize poems and essays followed, and then the procession of newly
created doctors left the theater with Lord Curzon at their head. So it
was all over-that for which, as he said, he would have made the journey
to Mars. The world had nothing more to give him now except that which he
had already long possessed-its honor and its love.
The newly made doctors were to be the guests of Lord Curzon at All Souls
College for luncheon. As they left the theater (according to Sidney
Lee):
The people in the streets singled out Mark Twain, formed a vast and
cheering body-guard around him and escorted him to the college
gates. But before and after the lunch it was Mark Twain again whom
everybody seemed most of all to want to meet. The Maharajah of
Bikanir, for instance, finding himself seated at lunch next to Mrs.
Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin), and hearing that she knew Mark Twain,
asked her to present him a ceremony duly performed later on the
quadrangle. At the garden-party given the same afternoon in the
beautiful grounds of St. John's, where the indefatigable Mark put
in an appearance, it was just the same--every one pressed forward
for an exchange of greetings and a hand-shake. On the following
day, when the Oxford pageant took place, it was even more so. “Mark
Twain's Pageant,” it was called by one of the papers.--[There was a
dinner that evening at one of the colleges where, through mistaken
information, Clemens wore black evening dress when he should have
worn his scarlet gown. “When I arrived,” he said, “the place was
just a conflagration--a kind of human prairie-fire. I looked as out
of place as a Presbyterian in hell.”]
Clemens remained the guest of Robert Porter, whose house was besieged
with those desiring a glimpse of their new doctor of letters. If he went
on the streets he was instantly recognized by some newsboy or cabman or
butcher-boy, and the word ran along like a cry of fire, while the crowds
assembled.
At a luncheon which the Porters gave him the proprietor of the
catering establishment garbed himself as a waiter in order to have the
distinction of serving Mark Twain, and declared it to have been the
greatest moment of his life. This gentleman--for he was no less than
that--was a man well-read, and his tribute was not inspired by mere
snobbery. Clemens, learning of the situation, later withdrew from the
drawing-room for a talk with him.
“I found,” he said, “that he knew about ten or fifteen times as much
about my books as I knew about them myself.”
Mark Twain viewed the Oxford pageant from a box with Rudyard Kipling and
Lord Curzon, and as they sat there some one passed up a folded slip of
paper, on the outside of which was written, “Not true.” Opening it, they
read:
East is East and West is West,
And never the Twain shall meet,
--a quotation from Kipling.
They saw the panorama of history file by, a wonderful spectacle which
made Oxford a veritable dream of the Middle Ages. The lanes and streets
and meadows were thronged with such costumes as Oxford had seen in
its long history. History was realized in a manner which no one could
appreciate more fully than Mark Twain.
“I was particularly anxious to see this pageant,” he said, “so that
I could get ideas for my funeral procession, which I am planning on a
large scale.”
He was not disappointed; it was a realization to him of all the gorgeous
spectacles that his soul had dreamed from youth up.
He easily recognized the great characters of history as they passed by,
and he was recognized by them in turn; for they waved to him and bowed
and sometimes called his name, and when he went down out of his box,
by and by, Henry VIII. shook hands with him, a monarch he had always
detested, though he was full of friendship for him now; and Charles I.
took off his broad, velvet-plumed hat when they met, and Henry II.
and Rosamond and Queen Elizabeth all saluted him--ghosts of the dead
centuries.