No More Learning

You take up the
paper and observe how crisply and confidently he checks off what
to-day's weather is going to be on the Pacific, down South, in the
Middle States, in the Wisconsin region. See him sail along in the joy
and pride of his power till he gets to New England, and then see his
tail drop. He doesn't know what the weather is going to be in New
England. Well, he mulls over it, and by and-by he gets out something
about like this: Probably northeast to southwest winds, varying to the
southward and westward and eastward, and points between, high and low
barometer swapping around from place to place; probable areas of rain,
snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes, with
thunder and lightning. Then he jots down his postscript from his
wandering mind, to cover accidents. "But it is possible that the
programme may be wholly changed in the mean time. " Yes, one of the
brightest gems in the New England weather is the dazzling uncertainty of
it. There is only one thing certain about it: you are certain there is
going to be plenty of it--a perfect grand review; but you never can tell
which end of the procession is going to move first. You fix up for the
drought; you leave your umbrella in the house and sally out, and two to
one you get drowned. You make up your mind that the earthquake is due;
you stand from under, and take hold of something to steady yourself, and
the first thing you know you get struck by lightning. These are great
disappointments; but they can't be helped. The lightning there is
peculiar; it is so convincing, that when it strikes a thing it doesn't
leave enough of that thing behind for you to tell whether--Well, you'd
think it was something valuable, and a Congressman had been there. And
the thunder. When the thunder begins to merely tune up and scrape and
saw, and key up the instruments for the performance, strangers say,
"Why, what awful thunder you have here! " But when the baton is raised
and the real concert begins, you'll find that stranger down in the
cellar with his head in the ash-barrel. Now as to the size of the
weather in New England--lengthways, I mean. It is utterly disproportioned
to the size of that little country. Half the time, when it is packed as
full as it can stick, you will see that New England weather sticking out
beyond the edges and projecting around hundreds and hundreds of miles
over the neighboring States. She can't hold a tenth part of her weather.
You can see cracks all about where she has strained herself trying to
do it. I could speak volumes about the inhuman perversity of the New
England weather, but I will give but a single specimen. I like to hear
rain on a tin roof. So I covered part of my roof with tin, with an eye
to that luxury. Well, sir, do you think it ever rains on that tin? No,
sir; skips it every time. Mind, in this speech I have been trying merely
to do honor to the New England weather--no language could do it justice.
But, after all, there is at least one or two things about that weather
(or, if you please, effects produced by it) which we residents would not
like to part with. If we hadn't our bewitching autumn foliage, we should
still have to credit the weather with one feature which compensates for
all its bullying vagaries--the ice-storm: when a leafless tree is clothed
with ice from the bottom to the top--ice that is as bright and clear
as crystal; when every bough and twig is strung with ice-beads, frozen
dew-drops, and the whole tree sparkles cold and white, like the Shah
of Persia's diamond plume. Then the wind waves the branches and the sun
comes out and turns all those myriads of beads and drops to prisms that
glow and burn and flash with all manner of colored fires, which change
and change again with inconceivable rapidity from blue to red, from red
to green, and green to gold--the tree becomes a spraying fountain, a very
explosion of dazzling jewels; and it stands there the acme, the
climax, the supremest possibility in art or nature, of bewildering,
intoxicating, intolerable magnificence. One cannot make the words too
strong.






THE BABIES

THE BABIES



DELIVERED AT THE BANQUET, IN CHICAGO, GIVEN BY THE ARMY OF THE
TENNESSEE TO THEIR FIRST COMMANDER, GENERAL U. S. GRANT,
NOVEMBER, 1879

The fifteenth regular toast was "The Babies. --As they comfort
us in our sorrows, let us not forget them in our festivities. "

I like that. We have not all had the good fortune to be ladies. We have
not all been generals, or poets, or statesmen; but when the toast works
down to the babies, we stand on common ground. It is a shame that for a
thousand years the world's banquets have utterly ignored the baby, as if
he didn't amount to anything. If you will stop and think a minute--if you
will go back fifty or one hundred years to your early married life and
recontemplate your first baby--you will remember that he amounted to a
good deal, and even something over. You soldiers all know that when that
little fellow arrived at family headquarters you had to hand in your
resignation. He took entire command. You became his lackey, his mere
body-servant, and you had to stand around too. He was not a commander
who made allowances for time, distance, weather, or anything else. You
had to execute his order whether it was possible or not. And there was
only one form of marching in his manual of tactics, and that was
the double-quick. He treated you with every sort of insolence and
disrespect, and the bravest of you didn't dare to say a word. You could
face the death-storm at Donelson and Vicksburg, and give back blow
for blow; but when he clawed your whiskers, and pulled your hair, and
twisted your nose, you had to take it. When the thunders of war were
sounding in your ears you set your faces toward the batteries, and
advanced with steady tread; but when he turned on the terrors of his
war whoop you advanced in the other direction, and mighty glad of the
chance, too. When he called for soothing-syrup, did you venture to throw
out any side-remarks about certain services being unbecoming an officer
and a gentleman? No. You got up and got it. When he ordered his pap
bottle and it was not warm, did you talk back? Not you. You went to work
and warmed it. You even descended so far in your menial office as to
take a suck at that warm, insipid stuff yourself, to see if it was
right--three parts water to one of milk, a touch of sugar to modify the
colic, and a drop of peppermint to kill those immortal hiccoughs. I can
taste that stuff yet. And how many things you learned as you went along!
Sentimental young folks still take stock in that beautiful old saying
that when the baby smiles in his sleep, it is because the angels are
whispering to him. Very pretty, but too thin--simply wind on the stomach,
my friends. If the baby proposed to take a walk at his usual hour, two
o'clock in the morning, didn't you rise up promptly and remark, with a
mental addition which would not improve a Sunday-school book much, that
that was the very thing you were about to propose yourself? Oh! you were
under good discipline, and as you went fluttering up and down the room
in your undress uniform, you not only prattled undignified baby-talk,
but even tuned up your martial voices and tried to sing! --Rock a-by
Baby in the Tree-top, for instance. What a spectacle for an Army of the
Tennessee! And what an affliction for the neighbors, too; for it is not
everybody within a mile around that likes military music at three in
the morning. And, when you had been keeping this sort of thing up two or
three hours, and your little velvet head intimated that nothing suited
him like exercise and noise, what did you do? You simply went on until
you dropped in the last ditch. The idea that a baby doesn't amount to
anything! Why, one baby is just a house and a front yard full by itself.
One baby can furnish more business than you and your whole Interior
Department can attend to. He is enterprising, irrepressible, brimful of
lawless activities. Do what you please, you can't make him stay on the
reservation. Sufficient unto the day is one baby. As long as you are
in your right mind don't you ever pray for twins. Twins amount to a
permanent riot. And there ain't any real difference between triplets and
an insurrection.

Yes, it was high time for a toast-master to recognize the importance
of the babies. Think what is in store for the present crop! Fifty years
from now we shall all be dead, I trust, and then this flag, if it still
survive (and let us hope it may), will be floating over a Republic
numbering 200,000,000 souls, according to the settled laws of our
increase. Our present schooner of State will have grown into a political
leviathan--a Great Eastern. The cradled babies of to-day will be on deck.
Let them be well trained, for we are going to leave a big contract on
their hands. Among the three or four million cradles now rocking in
the land are some which this nation would preserve for ages as sacred
things, if we could know which ones they are. In one of these cradles
the unconscious Farragut of the future is at this moment teething--think
of it! and putting in a world of dead earnest, unarticulated, but
perfectly justifiable profanity over it, too. In another the future
renowned astronomer is blinking at the shining Milky Way with but a
languid interest poor little chap! --and wondering what has become of that
other one they call the wet-nurse. In another the future great historian
is lying--and doubtless will continue to lie until his earthly mission
is ended. In another the future President is busying himself with no
profounder problem of state than what the mischief has become of his
hair so early; and in a mighty array of other cradles there are now some
60,000 future office-seekers, getting ready to furnish him occasion to
grapple with that same old problem a second time. And in still one
more cradle, some where under the flag, the future illustrious
commander-in-chief of the American armies is so little burdened with
his approaching grandeurs and responsibilities as to be giving his whole
strategic mind at this moment to trying to find out some way to get his
big toe into his mouth--an achievement which, meaning no disrespect, the
illustrious guest of this evening turned his entire attention to some
fifty-six years ago; and if the child is but a prophecy of the man,
there are mighty few who will doubt that he succeeded.






OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES



DELIVERED AT THE AUTHORS' CLUB, NEW YORK

Our children--yours--and--mine. They seem like little things to talk
about--our children, but little things often make up the sum of human
life--that's a good sentence. I repeat it, little things often produce
great things. Now, to illustrate, take Sir Isaac Newton--I presume some
of you have heard of Mr. Newton. Well, once when Sir Isaac Newton--a mere
lad--got over into the man's apple orchard--I don't know what he was doing
there--I didn't come all the way from Hartford to q-u-e-s-t-i-o-n Mr.
Newton's honesty--but when he was there--in the main orchard--he saw
an apple fall and he was a-t-t-racted toward it, and that led to the
discovery--not of Mr. Newton but of the great law of attraction and
gravitation.

And there was once another great discoverer--I've forgotten his name, and
I don't remember what he discovered, but I know it was something very
important, and I hope you will all tell your children about it when you
get home. Well, when the great discoverer was once loafn' around down in
Virginia, and a-puttin' in his time flirting with Pocahontas--oh! Captain
John Smith, that was the man's name--and while he and Poca were sitting
in Mr. Powhatan's garden, he accidentally put his arm around her and
picked something--a simple weed, which proved to be tobacco--and now we
find it in every Christian family, shedding its civilizing influence
broadcast throughout the whole religious community.

Now there was another great man, I can't think of his name either, who
used to loaf around and watch the great chandelier in the cathedral at
Pisa. , which set him to thinking about the great law of gunpowder, and
eventually led to the discovery of the cotton-gin.

Now, I don't say this as an inducement for our young men to loaf around
like Mr. Newton and Mr. Galileo and Captain Smith, but they were once
little babies two days old, and they show what little things have
sometimes accomplished.






EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS



The children of the Educational Alliance gave a performance of
"The Prince and the Pauper" on the afternoon of April 14, 1907,
in the theatre of the Alliance Building in East Broadway. The
audience was composed of nearly one thousand children of the
neighborhood. Mr. Clemens, Mr. Howells, and Mr. Daniel Frohman
were among the invited guests.

I have not enjoyed a play so much, so heartily, and so thoroughly since
I played Miles Hendon twenty-two years ago. I used to play in this piece
("The Prince and the Pauper") with my children, who, twenty-two years
ago, were little youngsters. One of my daughters was the Prince, and a
neighbor's daughter was the Pauper, and the children of other neighbors
played other parts. But we never gave such a performance as we have seen
here to-day. It would have been beyond us.

My late wife was the dramatist and stage-manager. Our coachman was the
stage-manager, second in command. We used to play it in this simple way,
and the one who used to bring in the crown on a cushion--he was a little
fellow then--is now a clergyman way up high--six or seven feet high--and
growing higher all the time. We played it well, but not as well as you
see it here, for you see it done by practically trained professionals.

I was especially interested in the scene which we have just had, for
Miles Hendon was my part. I did it as well as a person could who never
remembered his part. The children all knew their parts. They did not
mind if I did not know mine. I could thread a needle nearly as well as
the player did whom you saw to-day. The words of my part I could supply
on the spot. The words of the song that Miles Hendon sang here I did not
catch. But I was great in that song.



[Then Mr. Clemens hummed a bit of doggerel that the reporter
made out as this:

"There was a woman in her town,
She loved her husband well,
But another man just twice as well. "

"How is that? " demanded Mr. Clemens. Then resuming]

It was so fresh and enjoyable to make up a new set of words each time
that I played the part.

If I had a thousand citizens in front of me, I would like to give them
information, but you children already know all that I have found out
about the Educational Alliance. It's like a man living within thirty
miles of Vesuvius and never knowing about a volcano. It's like living
for a lifetime in Buffalo, eighteen miles from Niagara, and never going
to see the Falls. So I had lived in New York and knew nothing about the
Educational Alliance.

This theatre is a part of the work, and furnishes pure and clean plays.
This theatre is an influence. Everything in the world is accomplished by
influences which train and educate. When you get to be seventy-one and a
half, as I am, you may think that your education is over, but it isn't.

If we had forty theatres of this kind in this city of four millions,
how they would educate and elevate! We should have a body of educated
theatre-goers.

It would make better citizens, honest citizens. One of the best gifts a
millionaire could make would be a theatre here and a theatre there. It
would make of you a real Republic, and bring about an educational level.






THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE



On November 19, 1907, Mr. Clemens entertained a party of six or
seven hundred of his friends, inviting them to witness the
representation of "The Prince and the Pauper," played by boys
and girls of the East Side at the Children's Educational
Theatre, New York.

Just a word or two to let you know how deeply I appreciate the honor
which the children who are the actors and frequenters of this cozy
playhouse have conferred upon me. They have asked me to be their
ambassador to invite the hearts and brains of New York to come down here
and see the work they are doing. I consider it a grand distinction to be
chosen as their intermediary. Between the children and myself there is
an indissoluble bond of friendship.

I am proud of this theatre and this performance--proud, because I am
naturally vain--vain of myself and proud of the children.

I wish we could reach more children at one time. I am glad to see that
the children of the East Side have turned their backs on the Bowery
theatres to come to see the pure entertainments presented here.

This Children's Theatre is a great educational institution. I hope the
time will come when it will be part of every public school in the land.
I may be pardoned in being vain. I was born vain, I guess. [At this
point the stage-manager's whistle interrupted Mr. Clemens. ] That settles
it; there's my cue to stop. I was to talk until the whistle blew, but it
blew before I got started. It takes me longer to get started than most
people. I guess I was born at slow speed. My time is up, and if you'll
keep quiet for two minutes I'll tell you something about Miss Herts, the
woman who conceived this splendid idea. She is the originator and the
creator of this theatre. Educationally, this institution coins the gold
of young hearts into external good.



[On April 23, 1908, he spoke again at the same place]

I will be strictly honest with you; I am only fit to be honorary
president. It is not to be expected that I should be useful as a real
president. But when it comes to things ornamental I, of course, have no
objection. There is, of course, no competition. I take it as a very real
compliment because there are thousands of children who have had a part
in this request. It is promotion in truth.

It is a thing worth doing that is done here. You have seen the children
play. You saw how little Sally reformed her burglar. She could reform
any burglar. She could reform me. This is the only school in which
can be taught the highest and most difficult lessons--morals. In other
schools the way of teaching morals is revolting. Here the children who
come in thousands live through each part.

They are terribly anxious for the villain to get his bullet, and that
I take to be a humane and proper sentiment. They spend freely the ten
cents that is not saved without a struggle. It comes out of the candy
money, and the money that goes for chewing-gum and other necessaries of
life. They make the sacrifice freely. This is the only school which they
are sorry to leave.






POETS AS POLICEMEN



Mr. Clemens was one of the speakers at the Lotos Club dinner to
Governor Odell, March 24, 1900. The police problem was
referred to at length.

Let us abolish policemen who carry clubs and revolvers, and put in a
squad of poets armed to the teeth with poems on Spring and Love. I
would be very glad to serve as commissioner, not because I think I am
especially qualified, but because I am too tired to work and would like
to take a rest.

Howells would go well as my deputy. He is tired too, and needs a rest
badly.

I would start in at once to elevate, purify, and depopulate the
red-light district. I would assign the most soulful poets to that
district, all heavily armed with their poems. Take Chauncey Depew as a
sample.
I would station them on the corners after they had rounded up
all the depraved people of the district so they could not escape, and
then have them read from their poems to the poor unfortunates. The
plan would be very effective in causing an emigration of the depraved
element.






PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED



When Mr. Clemens arrived from Europe in 1895 one of the first
things he did was to see the dramatization of Pudd'nhead
Wilson. The audience becoming aware of the fact that Mr.
Clemens was in the house called upon him for a speech.

Never in my life have I been able to make a speech without preparation,
and I assure you that this position in which I find myself is one
totally unexpected.

I have been hemmed in all day by William Dean Howells and other
frivolous persons, and I have been talking about everything in the world
except that of which speeches are constructed. Then, too, seven days
on the water is not conducive to speech-making. I will only say that I
congratulate Mr. Mayhew; he has certainly made a delightful play out of
my rubbish. His is a charming gift. Confidentially I have always had
an idea that I was well equipped to write plays, but I have never
encountered a manager who has agreed with me.






DALY THEATRE



ADDRESS AT A DINNER AFTER THE ONE HUNDREDTH PERFORMANCE OF
"THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. "

Mr. Clemens made the following speech, which he incorporated
afterward in Following the Equator.

I am glad to be here. This is the hardest theatre in New York to get
into, even at the front door. I never got in without hard work. I am
glad we have got so far in at last. Two or three years ago I had an
appointment to meet Mr. Daly on the stage of this theatre at eight
o'clock in the evening. Well, I got on a train at Hartford to come to
New York and keep the appointment. All I had to do was to come to the
back door of the theatre on Sixth Avenue. I did not believe that; I did
not believe it could be on Sixth Avenue, but that is what Daly's note
said--come to that door, walk right in, and keep the appointment. It
looked very easy. It looked easy enough, but I had not much confidence
in the Sixth Avenue door.

Well, I was kind of bored on the train, and I bought some newspapers--New
Haven newspapers--and there was not much news in them, so I read the
advertisements. There was one advertisement of a bench-show. I had
heard of bench-shows, and I often wondered what there was about them
to interest people. I had seen bench-shows--lectured to bench-shows, in
fact--but I didn't want to advertise them or to brag about them. Well, I
read on a little, and learned that a bench-show was not a bench-show--but
dogs, not benches at all--only dogs. I began to be interested, and as
there was nothing else to do I read every bit of the advertisement, and
learned that the biggest thing in this show was a St. Bernard dog that
weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds. Before I got to New York I
was so interested in the bench-shows that I made up my mind to go to one
the first chance I got. Down on Sixth Avenue, near where that back door
might be, I began to take things leisurely. I did not like to be in too
much of a hurry. There was not anything in sight that looked like a back
door. The nearest approach to it was a cigar store. So I went in and
bought a cigar, not too expensive, but it cost enough to pay for any
information I might get and leave the dealer a fair profit. Well, I did
not like to be too abrupt, to make the man think me crazy, by asking him
if that was the way to Daly's Theatre, so I started gradually to lead up
to the subject, asking him first if that was the way to Castle Garden.
When I got to the real question, and he said he would show me the way, I
was astonished. He sent me through a long hallway, and I found myself
in a back yard. Then I went through a long passageway and into a little
room, and there before my eyes was a big St. Bernard dog lying on a
bench. There was another door beyond and I went there, and was met by a
big, fierce man with a fur cap on and coat off, who remarked, "Phwat do
yez want? " I told him I wanted to see Mr. Daly. "Yez can't see Mr. Daly
this time of night," he responded. I urged that I had an appointment
with Mr. Daly, and gave him my card, which did not seem to impress
him much. "Yez can't get in and yez can't shmoke here. Throw away that
cigar. If yez want to see Mr. Daly, yez 'll have to be after going to
the front door and buy a ticket, and then if yez have luck and he's
around that way yez may see him. " I was getting discouraged, but I had
one resource left that had been of good service in similar emergencies.
Firmly but kindly I told him my name was Mark Twain, and I awaited
results. There was none. He was not fazed a bit. "Phwere's your order
to see Mr. Daly? " he asked. I handed him the note, and he examined it
intently. "My friend," I remarked, "you can read that better if you
hold it the other side up. " But he took no notice of the suggestion, and
finally asked: "Where's Mr. Daly's name? " "There it is," I told him,
"on the top of the page. " "That's all right," he said, "that's where
he always puts it; but I don't see the 'W' in his name," and he eyed
me distrustfully. Finally, he asked, "Phwat do yez want to see Mr.
Daly for? " "Business. " "Business? " "Yes. " It was my only hope. "Phwat
kind--theatres? " that was too much. "No. " "What kind of shows, then? "
"Bench-shows. " It was risky, but I was desperate. "Bench--shows, is
it--where? " The big man's face changed, and he began to look interested.
"New Haven. " "New Haven, it is? Ah, that's going to be a fine show. I'm
glad to see you. Did you see a big dog in the other room? " "Yes. " "How
much do you think that dog weighs? " "One hundred and forty-five pounds. "
"Look at that, now! He's a good judge of dogs, and no mistake. He weighs
all of one hundred and thirty-eight. Sit down and shmoke--go on and
shmoke your cigar, I'll tell Mr. Daly you are here. " In a few minutes I
was on the stage shaking hands with Mr. Daly, and the big man standing
around glowing with satisfaction. "Come around in front," said Mr. Daly,
"and see the performance. I will put you into my own box. " And as I
moved away I heard my honest friend mutter, "Well, he desarves it. "






THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN

A large part of the daughter of civilization is her dress--as it should
be. Some civilized women would lose half their charm without dress, and
some would lose all of it. The daughter of modern civilization dressed
at her utmost best is a marvel of exquisite and beautiful art and
expense. All the lands, all the climes, and all the arts are laid under
tribute to furnish her forth. Her linen is from Belfast, her robe is
from Paris, her lace is from Venice, or Spain, or France, her feathers
are from the remote regions of Southern Africa, her furs from the
remoter region of the iceberg and the aurora, her fan from Japan, her
diamonds from Brazil, her bracelets from California, her pearls from
Ceylon, her cameos from Rome. She has gems and trinkets from buried
Pompeii, and others that graced comely Egyptian forms that have been
dust and ashes now for forty centuries. Her watch is from Geneva, her
card case is from China, her hair is from--from--I don't know where her
hair is from; I never could find out; that is, her other hair--her public
hair, her Sunday hair; I don't mean the hair she goes to bed with.

And that reminds me of a trifle. Any time you want to you can glance
around the carpet of a Pullman car, and go and pick up a hair-pin; but
not to save your life can you get any woman in that car to acknowledge
that hair-pin. Now, isn't that strange? But it's true. The woman who
has never swerved from cast-iron veracity and fidelity in her whole life
will, when confronted with this crucial test, deny her hair-pin. She
will deny that hair-pin before a hundred witnesses. I have stupidly got
into more trouble and more hot water trying to hunt up the owner of a
hair-pin in a Pullman than by any other indiscretion of my life.






DRESS REFORM AND COPYRIGHT



When the present copyright law was under discussion, Mr.
Clemens appeared before the committee. He had sent Speaker
Cannon the following letter:

"DEAR UNCLE JOSEPH,--Please get me the thanks of Congress, not
next week but right away. It is very necessary. Do accomplish
this for your affectionate old friend right away--by
persuasion if you can, by violence if you must, for it is
imperatively necessary that I get on the floor of the House for
two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in
behalf of support, encouragement, and protection of one of the
nation's most valuable assets and industries--its literature.
I have arguments with me--also a barrel with liquid in it.

"Give me a chance. Get me the thanks of Congress. Don't wait
for others--there isn't time; furnish them to me yourself and
let Congress ratify later. I have stayed away and let Congress
alone for seventy-one years and am entitled to the thanks.
Congress knows this perfectly well, and I have long felt hurt
that this quite proper and earned expression of gratitude has
been merely felt by the House and never publicly uttered.

"Send me an order on the sergeant-at-arms quick. When shall I
come?
"With love and a benediction,
"MARK TWAIN. "



While waiting to appear before the committee, Mr. Clemens
talked to the reporters:

Why don't you ask why I am wearing such apparently unseasonable clothes?
I'll tell you. I have found that when a man reaches the advanced age of
seventy-one years, as I have, the continual sight of dark clothing is
likely to have a depressing effect upon him. Light-colored clothing
is more pleasing to the eye and enlivens the spirit. Now, of course,
I cannot compel every one to wear such clothing just for my especial
benefit, so I do the next best thing and wear it myself.

Of course, before a man reaches my years the fear of criticism might
prevent him from indulging his fancy. I am not afraid of that. I am
decidedly for pleasing color combinations in dress. I like to see the
women's clothes, say, at the opera. What can be more depressing than the
sombre black which custom requires men to wear upon state occasions? A
group of men in evening clothes looks like a flock of crows, and is just
about as inspiring.

After all, what is the purpose of clothing? Are not clothes intended
primarily to preserve dignity and also to afford comfort to their
wearer? Now I know of nothing more uncomfortable than the present-day
clothes of men. The finest clothing made is a person's own skin, but, of
course, society demands something more than this.

The best-dressed man I have ever seen, however, was a native of the
Sandwich Islands who attracted my attention thirty years ago. Now, when
that man wanted to don especial dress to honor a public occasion or a
holiday, why, he occasionally put on a pair of spectacles. Otherwise the
clothing with which God had provided him sufficed.

Of course, I have ideas of dress reform. For one thing, why not adopt
some of the women's styles? Goodness knows, they adopt enough of ours.
Take the peek-a-boo waist, for instance. It has the obvious advantages
of being cool and comfortable, and in addition it is almost always made
up in pleasing colors which cheer and do not depress.

It is true that I dressed the Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur's Court
in a plug-hat, but, let's see, that was twenty-five years ago. Then no
man was considered fully dressed until he donned a plug-hat. Nowadays I
think that no man is dressed until he leaves it home. Why, when I left
home yesterday they trotted out a plug-hat for me to wear.

"You must wear it," they told me; "why, just think of going to
Washington without a plug-hat! " But I said no; I would wear a derby or
nothing. Why, I believe I could walk along the streets of New York--I
never do--but still I think I could--and I should never see a well-dressed
man wearing a plug-hat. If I did I should suspect him of something. I
don't know just what, but I would suspect him.

Why, when I got up on the second story of that Pennsylvania ferry-boat
coming down here yesterday I saw Howells coming along. He was the only
man on the boat with a plug-hat, and I tell you he felt ashamed of
himself. He said he had been persuaded to wear it against his better
sense. But just think of a man nearly seventy years old who has not a
mind of his own on such matters!

"Are you doing any work now? " the youngest and most serious reporter
asked.

Work? I retired from work on my seventieth birthday. Since then I
have been putting in merely twenty-six hours a day dictating my
autobiography, which, as John Phoenix said in regard to his autograph,
may be relied upon as authentic, as it is written exclusively by me.
But it is not to be published in full until I am thoroughly dead. I have
made it as caustic, fiendish, and devilish as possible. It will fill
many volumes, and I shall continue writing it until the time comes for
me to join the angels. It is going to be a terrible autobiography. It
will make the hair of some folks curl. But it cannot be published
until I am dead, and the persons mentioned in it and their children and
grandchildren are dead. It is something awful!

"Can you tell us the names of some of the notables that are here to see
you off? "

I don't know. I am so shy. My shyness takes a peculiar phase. I never
look a person in the face. The reason is that I am afraid they may know
me and that I may not know them, which makes it very embarrassing for
both of us. I always wait for the other person to speak. I know lots of
people, but I don't know who they are. It is all a matter of ability to
observe things. I never observe anything now. I gave up the habit years
ago. You should keep a habit up if you want to become proficient in it.
For instance, I was a pilot once, but I gave it up, and I do not believe
the captain of the Minneapolis would let me navigate his ship to London.
Still, if I think that he is not on the job I may go up on the bridge
and offer him a few suggestions.






COLLEGE GIRLS



Five hundred undergraduates, under the auspices of the Woman's
University Club, New York, welcomed Mr. Clemens as their guest,
April 3, 1906, and gave him the freedom of the club, which the
chairman explained was freedom to talk individually to any girl
present.

I've worked for the public good thirty years, so for the rest of my life
I shall work for my personal contentment. I am glad Miss Neron has fed
me, for there is no telling what iniquity I might wander into on an
empty stomach--I mean, an empty mind.

I am going to tell you a practical story about how once upon a time I
was blind--a story I should have been using all these months, but I never
thought about telling it until the other night, and now it is too late,
for on the nineteenth of this month I hope to take formal leave of the
platform forever at Carnegie Hall--that is, take leave so far as talking
for money and for people who have paid money to hear me talk. I shall
continue to infest the platform on these conditions--that there is nobody
in the house who has paid to hear me, that I am not paid to be heard,
and that there will be none but young women students in the audience.
[Here Mr. Clemens told the story of how he took a girl to the theatre
while he was wearing tight boots, which appears elsewhere in this
volume, and ended by saying: "And now let this be a lesson to you--I
don't know what kind of a lesson; I'll let you think it out.