No More Learning

I was going in the wrong direction all the time. By-and-by I came
in collision with a chair and that encouraged me.

It seemed to me, as far as I could recollect, there was only a chair
here and there and yonder, five or six of them scattered over this
territory, and I thought maybe after I found that chair I might find the
next one. Well, I did. And I found another and another and another. I
kept going around on my hands and knees, having those sudden collisions,
and finally when I banged into another chair I almost lost my temper.
And I raised up, garbed as I was, not for public exhibition, right in
front of a mirror fifteen or sixteen feet high.

I hadn't noticed the mirror; didn't know it was there. And when I saw
myself in the mirror I was frightened out of my wits. I don't allow any
ghosts to bite me, and I took up a chair and smashed at it. A million
pieces. Then I reflected. That's the way I always do, and it's
unprofitable unless a man has had much experience that way and has
clear judgment. And I had judgment, and I would have had to pay for that
mirror if I hadn't recollected to say it was Twichell who broke it.

Then I got down, on my hands and knees and went on another exploring
expedition.

As far as I could remember there were six chairs in that Oklahoma, and
one table, a great big heavy table, not a good table to hit with your
head when rushing madly along. In the course of time I collided with
thirty-five chairs and tables enough to stock that dining-room out
there. It was a hospital for decayed furniture, and it was in a worse
condition when I got through with it. I went on and on, and at last got
to a place where I could feel my way up, and there was a shelf. I knew
that wasn't in the middle of the room. Up to that time I was afraid I
had gotten out of the city.

I was very careful and pawed along that shelf, and there was a pitcher
of water about a foot high, and it was at the head of Twichell's bed,
but I didn't know it. I felt that pitcher going and I grabbed at it,
but it didn't help any and came right down in Twichell's face and nearly
drowned him. But it woke him up. I was grateful to have company on any
terms. He lit a match, and there I was, way down south when I ought to
have been back up yonder. My bed was out of sight it was so far away.
You needed a telescope to find it. Twichell comforted me and I scrubbed
him off and we got sociable.

But that night wasn't wasted. I had my pedometer on my leg. Twichell and
I were in a pedometer match. Twichell had longer legs than I. The only
way I could keep up was to wear my pedometer to bed. I always walk in my
sleep, and on this occasion I gained sixteen miles on him. After all, I
never found that sock. I never have seen it from that day to this. But
that adventure taught me what it is to be blind. That was one of the
most serious occasions of my whole life, yet I never can speak of it
without somebody thinking it isn't serious. You try it and see how
serious it is to be as the blind are and I was that night.

[Mr. Clemens read several letters of regret. He then introduced Joseph
H. Choate, saying:]

It is now my privilege to present to you Mr. Choate. I don't have to
really introduce him. I don't have to praise him, or to flatter him.
I could say truly that in the forty-seven years I have been familiarly
acquainted with him he has always been the handsomest man America has
ever produced. And I hope and believe he will hold the belt forty-five
years more. He has served his country ably, faithfully, and brilliantly.
He stands at the summit, at the very top in the esteem and regard of his
countrymen, and if I could say one word which would lift him any higher
in his countrymen's esteem and affection, I would say that word whether
it was true or not.






DR. MARK TWAIN, FARMEOPATH



ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL DINNER OF THE NEW YORK POST-GRADUATE
MEDICAL SCHOOL AND HOSPITAL, JANUARY 21, 1909

The president, Dr. George N. Miller, in introducing Mr.
Clemens, referred to his late experience with burglars.

GENTLEMEN AND DOCTORS,--I am glad to be among my own kind to-night. I
was once a sharpshooter, but now I practise a much higher and equally as
deadly a profession. It wasn't so very long ago that I became a member
of your cult, and for the time I've been in the business my record is
one that can't be scoffed at.

As to the burglars, I am perfectly familiar with these people. I have
always had a good deal to do with burglars--not officially, but through
their attentions to me. I never suffered anything at the hands of a
burglar. They have invaded my house time and time again. They never got
anything. Then those people who burglarized our house in September--we
got back the plated ware they took off, we jailed them, and I have been
sorry ever since. They did us a great service they scared off all the
servants in the place.

I consider the Children's Theatre, of which I am president, and the
Post-Graduate Medical School as the two greatest institutions in the
country. This school, in bringing its twenty thousand physicians from
all parts of the country, bringing them up to date, and sending them
back with renewed confidence, has surely saved hundreds of thousands of
lives which otherwise would have been lost.

I have been practising now for seven months. When I settled on my farm
in Connecticut in June I found the Community very thinly settled--and
since I have been engaged in practice it has become more thinly settled
still. This gratifies me, as indicating that I am making an impression
on my community. I suppose it is the same with all of you.

I have always felt that I ought to do something for you, and so I
organized a Redding (Connecticut) branch of the Post-Graduate School. I
am only a country farmer up there, but I am doing the best I can.

Of course, the practice of medicine and surgery in a remote country
district has its disadvantages, but in my case I am happy in a division
of responsibility. I practise in conjunction with a horse-doctor, a
sexton, and an undertaker. The combination is air-tight, and once a man
is stricken in our district escape is impossible for him.

These four of us--three in the regular profession and the fourth an
undertaker--are all good men. There is Bill Ferguson, the Redding
undertaker. Bill is there in every respect. He is a little lukewarm on
general practice, and writes his name with a rubber stamp. Like my old
Southern, friend, he is one of the finest planters anywhere.

Then there is Jim Ruggles, the horse-doctor. Ruggles is one of the best
men I have got. He also is not much on general medicine, but he is a
fine horse-doctor. Ferguson doesn't make any money off him.

You see, the combination started this way. When I got up to Redding and
had become a doctor, I looked around to see what my chances were for
aiding in the great work. The first thing I did was to determine what
manner of doctor I was to be. Being a Connecticut farmer, I naturally
consulted my farmacopia, and at once decided to become a farmeopath.

Then I got circulating about, and got in touch with Ferguson and
Ruggles. Ferguson joined readily in my ideas, but Ruggles kept saying
that, while it was all right for an undertaker to get aboard, he
couldn't see where it helped horses.

Well, we started to find out what was the trouble with the community,
and it didn't take long to find out that there was just one disease, and
that was race-suicide. And driving about the country-side I was told
by my fellow-farmers that it was the only rational human and valuable
disease. But it is cutting into our profits so that we'll either have to
stop it or we'll have to move.

We've had some funny experiences up there in Redding. Not long ago a
fellow came along with a rolling gait and a distressed face. We asked
him what was the matter. We always hold consultations on every case, as
there isn't business enough for four. He said he didn't know, but that
he was a sailor, and perhaps that might help us to give a diagnosis. We
treated him for that, and I never saw a man die more peacefully.

That same afternoon my dog Tige treed an African gentleman. We
chained up the dog, and then the gentleman came down and said he had
appendicitis. We asked him if he wanted to be cut open, and he said yes,
that he'd like to know if there was anything in it. So we cut him open
and found nothing in him but darkness. So we diagnosed his case as
infidelity, because he was dark inside. Tige is a very clever dog, and
aids us greatly.

The other day a patient came to me and inquired if I was old Doctor
Clemens--

As a practitioner I have given a great deal of my attention to Bright's
disease. I have made some rules for treating it that may be valuable.
Listen:

Rule 1. When approaching the bedside of one whom an all-wise President--I
mean an all-wise Providence--well, anyway, it's the same thing--has seen
fit to afflict with disease--well, the rule is simple, even if it is
old-fashioned.

Rule 2. I've forgotten just what it is, but--

Rule 3. This is always indispensable: Bleed your patient.






MISSOURI UNIVERSITY SPEECH



ADDRESS DELIVERED JUNE 4, 1902, AT COLUMBIA, MO.

When the name of Samuel L. Clemens was called the humorist
stepped forward, put his hand to his hair, and apparently
hesitated. There was a dead silence for a moment. Suddenly
the entire audience rose and stood in silence. Some one began
to spell out the word Missouri with an interval between the
letters. All joined in. Then the house again became silent.
Mr. Clemens broke the spell:

As you are all standing [he drawled in his characteristic voice], I
guess, I suppose I had better stand too.

[Then came a laugh and loud cries for a speech. As the great humorist
spoke of his recent visit to Hannibal, his old home, his voice
trembled. ]

You cannot know what a strain it was on my emotions [he said]. In fact,
when I found myself shaking hands with persons I had not seen for fifty
years and looking into wrinkled faces that were so young and joyous when
I last saw them, I experienced emotions that I had never expected, and
did not know were in me. I was profoundly moved and saddened to think
that this was the last time, perhaps, that I would ever behold those
kind old faces and dear old scenes of childhood.

[The humorist then changed to a lighter mood, and for a time the
audience was in a continual roar of laughter. He was particularly amused
at the eulogy on himself read by Gardiner Lathrop in conferring the
degree. ] He has a fine opportunity to distinguish himself [said Mr.
Clemens] by telling the truth about me.

I have seen it stated in print that as a boy I had been guilty of
stealing peaches, apples, and watermelons. I read a story to this effect
very closely not long ago, and I was convinced of one thing, which was
that the man who wrote it was of the opinion that it was wrong to steal,
and that I had not acted right in doing so. I wish now, however, to make
an honest statement, which is that I do not believe, in all my checkered
career, I stole a ton of peaches.

One night I stole--I mean I removed--a watermelon from a wagon while the
owner was attending to another customer. I crawled off to a secluded
spot, where I found that it was green. It was the greenest melon in
the Mississippi Valley. Then I began to reflect. I began to be sorry. I
wondered what George Washington would have done had he been in my place.
I thought a long time, and then suddenly felt that strange feeling which
comes to a man with a good resolution, and I took up that watermelon and
took it back to its owner. I handed him the watermelon and told him to
reform. He took my lecture much to heart, and, when he gave me a good
one in place of the green melon, I forgave him.

I told him that I would still be a customer of his, and that I cherished
no ill-feeling because of the incident--that would remain green in my
memory.






BUSINESS



The alumni of Eastman College gave their annual banquet,
March 30, 1901, at the Y. M. C. A. Building. Mr. James G.
Cannon, of the Fourth National Bank, made the first speech of
the evening, after which Mr. Clemens was introduced by Mr.
Bailey as the personal friend of Tom Sawyer, who was one of the
types of successful business men.

MR. CANNON has furnished me with texts enough to last as slow a speaker
as myself all the rest of the night. I took exception to the introducing
of Mr. Cannon as a great financier, as if he were the only great
financier present. I am a financier. But my methods are not the same as
Mr. Cannon's.

I cannot say that I have turned out the great business man that I
thought I was when I began life. But I am comparatively young yet, and
may learn. I am rather inclined to believe that what troubled me was
that I got the big-head early in the game. I want to explain to you a
few points of difference between the principles of business as I see
them and those that Mr. Cannon believes in.

He says that the primary rule of business success is loyalty to your
employer. That's all right--as a theory. What is the matter with loyalty
to yourself? As nearly as I can understand Mr. Cannon's methods, there
is one great drawback to them. He wants you to work a great deal.
Diligence is a good thing, but taking things easy is much more-restful.
My idea is that the employer should be the busy man, and the employee
the idle one. The employer should be the worried man, and the employee
the happy one. And why not? He gets the salary. My plan is to get
another man to do the work for me. In that there's more repose. What I
want is repose first, last, and all the time.

Mr. Cannon says that there are three cardinal rules of business success;
they are diligence, honesty, and truthfulness. Well, diligence is all
right. Let it go as a theory. Honesty is the best policy--when there is
money in it. But truthfulness is one of the most dangerous--why, this man
is misleading you.

I had an experience to-day with my wife which illustrates this. I was
acknowledging a belated invitation to another dinner for this evening,
which seemed to have been sent about ten days ago. It only reached me
this morning. I was mortified at the discourtesy into which I had been
brought by this delay, and wondered what was being thought of me by
my hosts. As I had accepted your invitation, of course I had to send
regrets to my other friends.

When I started to write this note my wife came up and stood looking
over my shoulder. Women always want to know what is going on. Said she
"Should not that read in the third person? " I conceded that it should,
put aside what I was writing, and commenced over again. That seemed to
satisfy her, and so she sat down and let me proceed. I then--finished my
first note--and so sent what I intended. I never could have done this if
I had let my wife know the truth about it.
Here is what I wrote:



TO THE OHIO SOCIETY,--I have at this moment received a most kind
invitation (eleven days old) from Mr. Southard, president; and a
like one (ten days old) from Mr. Bryant, president of the Press
Club. I thank the society cordially for the compliment of these
invitations, although I am booked elsewhere and cannot come.

But, oh, I should like to know the name of the Lightning Express by
which they were forwarded; for I owe a friend a dozen chickens, and
I believe it will be cheaper to send eggs instead, and let them
develop on the road.
Sincerely yours,
Mark TWAIN.

I want to tell you of some of my experiences in business, and then I
will be in a position to lay down one general rule for the guidance
of those who want to succeed in business. My first effort was about
twenty-five years ago. I took hold of an invention--I don't know now
what it was all about, but some one came to me and told me it was a good
thing, and that there was lots of money in it. He persuaded me to invest
$15,000, and I lived up to my beliefs by engaging a man to develop it.
To make a long story short, I sunk $40,000 in it.

Then I took up the publication of a book. I called in a publisher and
said to him: "I want you to publish this book along lines which I shall
lay down. I am the employer, and you are the employee. I am going to
show them some new kinks in the publishing business. And I want you to
draw on me for money as you go along," which he did. He drew on me
for $56,000. Then I asked him to take the book and call it off. But he
refused to do that.

My next venture was with a machine for doing something or other. I knew
less about that than I did about the invention. But I sunk $170,000 in
the business, and I can't for the life of me recollect what it was the
machine was to do.

I was still undismayed. You see, one of the strong points about my
business life was that I never gave up. I undertook to publish General
Grant's book, and made $140,000 in six months. My axiom is, to succeed
in business: avoid my example.






CARNEGIE THE BENEFACTOR



At the dinner given in honor of Andrew Carnegie by the Lotos
Club, March 17, 1909, Mr. Clemens appeared in a white suit from
head to feet. He wore a white double-breasted coat, white
trousers, and white shoes. The only relief was a big black
cigar, which he confidentially informed the company was not
from his usual stack bought at $3 per barrel.

The State of Missouri has for its coat of arms a barrel-head with two
Missourians, one on each side of it, and mark the motto--"United We
Stand, Divided We Fall. " Mr. Carnegie, this evening, has suffered from
compliments. It is interesting to hear what people will say about a man.
Why, at the banquet given by this club in my honor, Mr. Carnegie had
the inspiration for which the club is now honoring him. If Dunfermline
contributed so much to the United States in contributing Mr. Carnegie,
what would have happened if all Scotland had turned out? These
Dunfermline folk have acquired advantages in coming to America.

Doctor McKelway paid the top compliment, the cumulation, when he said of
Mr. Carnegie:

"There is a man who wants to pay more taxes than he is charged. " Richard
Watson Gilder did very well for a poet. He advertised his magazine. He
spoke of hiring Mr. Carnegie--the next thing he will be trying to hire
me.

If I undertook to pay compliments I would do it stronger than any others
have done it, for what Mr. Carnegie wants are strong compliments. Now,
the other side of seventy, I have preserved, as my chiefest virtue,
modesty.






ON POETRY, VERACITY, AND SUICIDE



ADDRESS AT A DINNER OF THE MANHATTAN DICKENS FELLOWSHIP,
NEW YORK CITY, FEBRUARY 7, 1906

This dinner was in commemoration of the ninety-fourth
anniversary of the birth of Charles Dickens. On an other
occasion Mr. Clemens told the same story with variations and a
different conclusion to the University Settlement Society.

I always had taken an interest in young people who wanted to become
poets. I remember I was particularly interested in one budding poet when
I was a reporter. His name was Butter.

One day he came to me and said, disconsolately, that he was going to
commit suicide--he was tired of life, not being able to express his
thoughts in poetic form. Butter asked me what I thought of the idea.

I said I would; that it was a good idea. "You can do me a friendly turn.
You go off in a private place and do it there, and I'll get it all. You
do it, and I'll do as much for you some time. "

At first he determined to drown himself. Drowning is so nice and clean,
and writes up so well in a newspaper.

But things ne'er do go smoothly in weddings, suicides, or courtships.
Only there at the edge of the water, where Butter was to end himself,
lay a life-preserver--a big round canvas one, which would float after the
scrap-iron was soaked out of it.

Butter wouldn't kill himself with the life-preserver in sight, and so
I had an idea. I took it to a pawnshop, and [soaked] it for a revolver:
The pawnbroker didn't think much of the exchange, but when I explained
the situation he acquiesced. We went up on top of a high building, and
this is what happened to the poet:

He put the revolver to his forehead and blew a tunnel straight through
his head. The tunnel was about the size of your finger. You could look
right through it. The job was complete; there was nothing in it.

Well, after that that man never could write prose, but he could write
poetry. He could write it after he had blown his brains out. There is
lots of that talent all over the country, but the trouble is they don't
develop it.

I am suffering now from the fact that I, who have told the truth a good
many times in my life, have lately received more letters than anybody
else urging me to lead a righteous life. I have more friends who want to
see me develop on a high level than anybody else.

Young John D. Rockefeller, two weeks ago, taught his Bible class all
about veracity, and why it was better that everybody should always keep
a plentiful supply on hand. Some of the letters I have received suggest
that I ought to attend his class and learn, too. Why, I know Mr.
Rockefeller, and he is a good fellow. He is competent in many ways
to teach a Bible class, but when it comes to veracity he is only
thirty-five years old. I'm seventy years old. I have been familiar with
veracity twice as long as he.

And the story about George Washington and his little hatchet has also
been suggested to me in these letters--in a fugitive way, as if I needed
some of George Washington and his hatchet in my constitution. Why, dear
me, they overlook the real point in that story. The point is not the one
that is usually suggested, and you can readily see that.

The point is not that George said to his father, "Yes, father, I cut
down the cheery-tree; I can't tell a lie," but that the little
boy--only seven years old--should have his sagacity developed under such
circumstances. He was a boy wise beyond his years. His conduct then was
a prophecy of later years. Yes, I think he was the most remarkable man
the country ever produced-up to my time, anyway.

Now then, little George realized that circumstantial evidence was
against him. He knew that his father would know from the size of the
chips that no full-grown hatchet cut that tree down, and that no man
would have haggled it so. He knew that his father would send around the
plantation and inquire for a small boy with a hatchet, and he had the
wisdom to come out and confess it. Now, the idea that his father was
overjoyed when he told little George that he would rather have him cut
down, a thousand cheery-trees than tell a lie is all nonsense. What did
he really mean? Why, that he was absolutely astonished that he had a son
who had the chance to tell a lie and didn't.

I admire old George--if that was his name--for his discernment. He knew
when he said that his son couldn't tell a lie that he was stretching it
a good deal. He wouldn't have to go to John D. Rockefeller's Bible class
to find that out. The way the old George Washington story goes down it
doesn't do anybody any good. It only discourages people who can tell a
lie.






WELCOME HOME



ADDRESS AT THE DINNER IN HIS HONOR AT THE LOTOS CLUB,
NOVEMBER 10, 1900

In August, 1895, just before sailing for Australia, Mr. Clemens
issued the following statement:

"It has been reported that I sacrificed, for the benefit of the
creditors, the property of the publishing firm whose financial backer I
was, and that I am now lecturing for my own benefit.

"This is an error. I intend the lectures, as well as the property, for
the creditors. The law recognizes no mortgage on a man's brains, and a
merchant who has given up all he has may take advantage of the laws of
insolvency and may start free again for himself. But I am not a business
man, and honor is a harder master than the law. It cannot compromise
for less than one hundred cents on a dollar, and its debts are never
outlawed.

"I had a two-thirds interest in the publishing firm whose capital I
furnished. If the firm had prospered I would have expected to collect
two-thirds of the profits. As it is, I expect to pay all the debts. My
partner has no resources, and I do not look for assistance to my wife,
whose contributions in cash from her own means have nearly equalled
the claims of all the creditors combined. She has taken nothing; on
the contrary, she has helped and intends to help me to satisfy the
obligations due to the rest of the creditors.

"It is my intention to ask my creditors to accept that as a legal
discharge, and trust to my honor to pay the other fifty per cent. as
fast as I can earn it. From my reception thus far on my lecturing tour,
I am confident that if I live I can pay off the last debt within four
years.

"After which, at the age of sixty-four, I can make a fresh and
unincumbered start in life. I am going to Australia, India, and South
Africa, and next year I hope to make a tour of the great cities of the
United States. "

I thank you all out of my heart for this fraternal welcome, and it seems
almost too fine, almost too magnificent, for a humble Missourian such as
I am, far from his native haunts on the banks of the Mississippi; yet
my modesty is in a degree fortified by observing that I am not the only
Missourian who has been honored here to-night, for I see at this very
table-here is a Missourian [indicating Mr. McKelway], and there is a
Missourian [indicating Mr. Depew], and there is another Missourian--and
Hendrix and Clemens; and last but not least, the greatest Missourian of
them all--here he sits--Tom Reed, who has always concealed his birth till
now. And since I have been away I know what has been happening in his
case: he has deserted politics, and now is leading a creditable life.
He has reformed, and God prosper him; and I judge, by a remark which
he made up-stairs awhile ago, that he had found a new business that is
utterly suited to his make and constitution, and all he is doing now is
that he is around raising the average of personal beauty.

But I am grateful to the president for the kind words which he has said
of me, and it is not for me to say whether these praises were deserved
or not. I prefer to accept them just as they stand, without concerning
myself with the statistics upon which they have been built, but only
with that large matter, that essential matter, the good-fellowship,
the kindliness, the magnanimity, and generosity that prompted their
utterance. Well, many things have happened since I sat here before, and
now that I think of it, the president's reference to the debts which
were left by the bankrupt firm of Charles L. Webster & Co. gives me an
opportunity to say a word which I very much wish to say, not for myself,
but for ninety-five men and women whom I shall always hold in high
esteem and in pleasant remembrance--the creditors of that firm. They
treated me well; they treated me handsomely. There were ninety-six of
them, and by not a finger's weight did ninety-five of them add to the
burden of that time for me. Ninety-five out of the ninety-six--they
didn't indicate by any word or sign that they were anxious about their
money. They treated me well, and I shall not forget it; I could not
forget it if I wanted to. Many of them said, "Don't you worry, don't
you hurry"; that's what they said. Why, if I could have that kind
of creditors always, and that experience, I would recognize it as a
personal loss to be out of debt. I owe those ninety-five creditors a
debt of homage, and I pay it now in such measure as one may pay so
fine a debt in mere words. Yes, they said that very thing. I was not
personally acquainted with ten of them, and yet they said, "Don't you
worry, and don't you hurry. " I know that phrase by heart, and if all the
other music should perish out of the world it would still sing to me.
I appreciate that; I am glad to say this word; people say so much about
me, and they forget those creditors. They were handsomer than I was--or
Tom Reed.

Oh, you have been doing many things in this time that I have been
absent; you have done lots of things, some that are well worth
remembering, too. Now, we have fought a righteous war since I have gone,
and that is rare in history--a righteous war is so rare that it is almost
unknown in history; but by the grace of that war we set Cuba free, and
we joined her to those three or four nations that exist on this earth;
and we started out to set those poor Filipinos free, too, and why, why,
why that most righteous purpose of ours has apparently miscarried I
suppose I never shall know.

But we have made a most creditable record in China in these days--our
sound and level-headed administration has made a most creditable record
over there, and there are some of the Powers that cannot say that by any
means. The Yellow Terror is threatening this world to-day. It is looming
vast and ominous on that distant horizon. I do not know what is going to
be the result of that Yellow Terror, but our government has had no hand
in evoking it, and let's be happy in that and proud of it.

We have nursed free silver, we watched by its cradle; we have done the
best we could to raise that child, but those pestiferous Republicans
have--well, they keep giving it the measles every chance they get, and we
never shall raise that child. Well, that's no matter--there's plenty of
other things to do, and we must think of something else. Well, we have
tried a President four years, criticised him and found fault with him
the whole time, and turned around a day or two ago with votes enough
to spare to elect another. O consistency! consistency! thy name--I don't
know what thy name is--Thompson will do--any name will do--but you see
there is the fact, there is the consistency. Then we have tried for
governor an illustrious Rough Rider, and we liked him so much in that
great office that now we have made him Vice-President--not in order
that that office shall give him distinction, but that he may confer
distinction upon that office. And it's needed, too--it's needed. And now,
for a while anyway, we shall not be stammering and embarrassed when a
stranger asks us, "What is the name of the Vice-President? " This one is
known; this one is pretty well known, pretty widely known, and in some
quarters favorably. I am not accustomed to dealing in these fulsome
compliments, and I am probably overdoing it a little; but--well, my old
affectionate admiration for Governor Roosevelt has probably betrayed me
into the complimentary excess; but I know him, and you know him; and
if you give him rope enough--I mean if--oh yes, he will justify that
compliment; leave it just as it is. And now we have put in his place
Mr. Odell, another Rough Rider, I suppose; all the fat things go to that
profession now. Why, I could have been a Rough Rider myself if I had
known that this political Klondike was going to open up, and I would
have been a Rough Rider if I could have gone to war on an automobile but
not on a horse! No, I know the horse too well; I have known the horse
in war and in peace, and there is no place where a horse is comfortable.
The horse has too many caprices, and he is too much given to initiative.
He invents too many new ideas. No, I don't want anything to do with a
horse.

And then we have taken Chauncey Depew out of a useful and active
life and made him a Senator--embalmed him, corked him up. And I am not
grieving. That man has said many a true thing about me in his time, and
I always said something would happen to him. Look at that [pointing to
Mr. Depew] gilded mummy! He has made my life a sorrow to me at many a
banquet on both sides of the ocean, and now he has got it. Perish the
hand that pulls that cork!

All these things have happened, all these things have come to pass,
while I have been away, and it just shows how little a Mugwump can be
missed in a cold, unfeeling world, even when he is the last one that is
left--a GRAND OLD PARTY all by himself. And there is another thing
that has happened, perhaps the most imposing event of them all: the
institution called the Daughters of the--Crown--the Daughters of the Royal
Crown--has established itself and gone into business. Now, there's an
American idea for you; there's an idea born of God knows what kind of
specialized insanity, but not softening of the brain--you cannot soften
a thing that doesn't exist--the Daughters of the Royal Crown! Nobody
eligible but American descendants of Charles II. Dear me, how the fancy
product of that old harem still holds out!

Well, I am truly glad to foregather with you again, and partake of the
bread and salt of this hospitable house once more. Seven years ago, when
I was your guest here, when I was old and despondent, you gave me the
grip and the word that lift a man up and make him glad to be alive; and
now I come back from my exile young again, fresh and alive, and ready to
begin life once more, and your welcome puts the finishing touch upon my
restored youth and makes it real to me, and not a gracious dream that
must vanish with the morning. I thank you.






AN UNDELIVERED SPEECH



The steamship St. Paul was to have been launched from Cramp's
shipyard in Philadelphia on March 25, 1895. After the
launching a luncheon was to have been given, at which Mr.
Clemens was to make a speech. Just before the final word was
given a reporter asked Mr. Clemens for a copy of his speech to
be delivered at the luncheon. To facilitate the work of the
reporter he loaned him a typewritten copy of the speech. It
happened, however, that when the blocks were knocked away the
big ship refused to budge, and no amount of labor could move
her an inch. She had stuck fast upon the ways. As a result,
the launching was postponed for a week or two; but in the mean
time Mr. Clemens had gone to Europe. Years after a reporter
called on Mr. Clemens and submitted the manuscript of the
speech, which was as follows:

Day after to-morrow I sail for England in a ship of this line, the
Paris. It will be my fourteenth crossing in three years and a half.
Therefore, my presence here, as you see, is quite natural, quite
commercial. I am interested in ships. They interest me more now than
hotels do. When a new ship is launched I feel a desire to go and see if
she will be good quarters for me to live in, particularly if she
belongs to this line, for it is by this line that I have done most of my
ferrying.

People wonder why I go so much. Well, I go partly for my health, partly
to familiarize myself with the road. I have gone over the same road so
many times now that I know all the whales that belong along the route,
and latterly it is an embarrassment to me to meet them, for they do not
look glad to see me, but annoyed, and they seem to say: "Here is this
old derelict again.