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Title: Mark Twain's Speeches

Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)

Release Date: August 19, 2006 [EBook #3188]
Last Updated: August 19, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES ***



Produced by David Widger







MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES


by Mark Twain







CONTENTS



INTRODUCTION

PREFACE

THE STORY OF A SPEECH

PLYMOUTH ROCK AND THE PILGRIMS

COMPLIMENTS AND DEGREES

BOOKS, AUTHORS, AND HATS

DEDICATION SPEECH

DIE SCHRECKEN DER DEUTSCHEN SPRACHE

GERMAN FOR THE HUNGARIANS

A NEW GERMAN WORD

UNCONSCIOUS PLAGIARISM

THE WEATHER

THE BABIES

OUR CHILDREN AND GREAT DISCOVERIES

EDUCATING THEATRE-GOERS

THE EDUCATIONAL THEATRE

POETS AS POLICEMEN

PUDD'NHEAD WILSON DRAMATIZED

DALY THEATRE

THE DRESS OF CIVILIZED WOMAN

DRESS REFORM AND COPYRIGHT

COLLEGE GIRLS

GIRLS

THE LADIES

WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB

VOTES FOR WOMEN

WOMAN-AN OPINION

ADVICE TO GIRLS

TAXES AND MORALS

TAMMANY AND CROKER

MUNICIPAL CORRUPTION

MUNICIPAL GOVERNMENT

CHINA AND THE PHILIPPINES

THEORETICAL MORALS

LAYMAN'S SERMON

UNIVERSITY SETTLEMENT SOCIETY

PUBLIC EDUCATION ASSOCIATION

EDUCATION AND CITIZENSHIP

COURAGE

THE DINNER TO MR. CHOATE

ON STANLEY AND LIVINGSTONE

HENRY M. STANLEY

DINNER TO MR. JEROME

HENRY IRVING

DINNER TO HAMILTON W. MABIE

INTRODUCING NYE AND RILEY

DINNER TO WHITELAW REID

ROGERS AND RAILROADS

THE OLD-FASHIONED PRINTER

SOCIETY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS

READING-ROOM OPENING

LITERATURE

DISAPPEARANCE OF LITERATURE

THE NEW YORK PRESS CLUB DINNER

THE ALPHABET AND SIMPLIFIED SPELLING

SPELLING AND PICTURES

BOOKS AND BURGLARS

AUTHORS' CLUB

BOOKSELLERS

"MARK TWAIN'S FIRST APPEARANCE"

MORALS AND MEMORY

QUEEN VICTORIA

JOAN OF ARC

ACCIDENT INSURANCE--ETC.

OSTEOPATHY

WATER-SUPPLY

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

CATS AND CANDY

OBITUARY POETRY

CIGARS AND TOBACCO

BILLIARDS

THE UNION RIGHT OR WRONG

AN IDEAL FRENCH ADDRESS

STATISTICS

GALVESTON ORPHAN BAZAAR

SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE

CHARITY AND ACTORS

RUSSIAN REPUBLIC

RUSSIAN SUFFERERS

WATTERSON AND TWAIN AS REBELS

ROBERT FULTON FUND

FULTON DAY, JAMESTOWN

LOTOS CLUB DINNER IN HONOR OF MARK TWAIN

COPYRIGHT

IN AID OF THE BLIND

DR. MARK TWAIN, FARMEOPATH

MISSOURI UNIVERSITY SPEECH

BUSINESS

CARNEGIE THE BENEFACTOR

ON POETRY, VERACITY, AND SUICIDE

WELCOME HOME

AN UNDELIVERED SPEECH

SIXTY-SEVENTH BIRTHDAY

TO THE WHITEFRIARS

THE ASCOT GOLD CUP

THE SAVAGE CLUB DINNER

GENERAL MILES AND THE DOG

WHEN IN DOUBT, TELL THE TRUTH

THE DAY WE CELEBRATE

INDEPENDENCE DAY

AMERICANS AND THE ENGLISH

ABOUT LONDON

PRINCETON

THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT "MARK TWAIN"

SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY








INTRODUCTION


These speeches will address themselves to the minds and hearts of those
who read them, but not with the effect they had with those who heard
them; Clemens himself would have said, not with half the effect. I have
noted elsewhere how he always held that the actor doubled the value of
the author's words; and he was a great actor as well as a great author.
He was a most consummate actor, with this difference from other actors,
that he was the first to know the thoughts and invent the fancies to
which his voice and action gave the color of life. Representation is the
art of other actors; his art was creative as well as representative; it
was nothing at second hand.

I never heard Clemens speak when I thought he quite failed; some burst
or spurt redeemed him when he seemed flagging short of the goal, and,
whoever else was in the running, he came in ahead. His near-failures
were the error of a rare trust to the spontaneity in which other
speakers confide, or are believed to confide, when they are on
their feet. He knew that from the beginning of oratory the orator's
spontaneity was for the silence and solitude of the closet where he
mused his words to an imagined audience; that this was the use of
orators from Demosthenes and Cicero up and down. He studied every word
and syllable, and memorized them by a system of mnemonics peculiar
to himself, consisting of an arbitrary arrangement of things on a
table--knives, forks, salt-cellars; inkstands, pens, boxes, or whatever
was at hand--which stood for points and clauses and climaxes, and were
at once indelible diction and constant suggestion. He studied every tone
and every gesture, and he forecast the result with the real audience
from its result with that imagined audience. Therefore, it was beautiful
to see him and to hear him; he rejoiced in the pleasure he gave and the
blows of surprise which he dealt; and because he had his end in mind, he
knew when to stop.

I have been talking of his method and manner; the matter the reader has
here before him; and it is good matter, glad, honest, kind, just.

W. D. HOWELLS.





PREFACE

FROM THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION OF "MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES"

If I were to sell the reader a barrel of molasses, and he, instead of
sweetening his substantial dinner with the same at judicious intervals,
should eat the entire barrel at one sitting, and then abuse me for
making him sick, I would say that he deserved to be made sick for not
knowing any better how to utilize the blessings this world affords.
And if I sell to the reader this volume of nonsense, and he, instead of
seasoning his graver reading with a chapter of it now and then, when his
mind demands such relaxation, unwisely overdoses himself with several
chapters of it at a single sitting, he will deserve to be nauseated, and
he will have nobody to blame but himself if he is. There is no more sin
in publishing an entire volume of nonsense than there is in keeping a
candy-store with no hardware in it. It lies wholly with the customer
whether he will injure himself by means of either, or will derive
from them the benefits which they will afford him if he uses their
possibilities judiciously.

Respectfully submitted,

THE AUTHOR.



MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES





THE STORY OF A SPEECH



An address delivered in 1877, and a review of it twenty-nine
years later. The original speech was delivered at a dinner
given by the publishers of The Atlantic Monthly in honor of the
seventieth anniversary o f the birth of John Greenleaf
Whittier, at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877.

This is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up of pleasant
reminiscences concerning literary folk; therefore I will drop lightly
into history myself. Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic and
contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am reminded
of a thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had just
succeeded in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whose
spume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly Californiaward. I started an
inspection tramp through the southern mines of California. I was callow
and conceited, and I resolved to try the virtue of my 'nom de guerre'.

I very soon had an opportunity. I knocked at a miner's lonely log cabin
in the foot-hills of the Sierras just at nightfall. It was snowing at
the time. A jaded, melancholy man of fifty, barefooted, opened the door
to me. When he heard my 'nom de guerre' he looked more dejected than
before. He let me in--pretty reluctantly, I thought--and after the
customary bacon and beans, black coffee and hot whiskey, I took a pipe.
This sorrowful man had not said three words up to this time. Now he
spoke up and said, in the voice of one who is secretly suffering,
"You're the fourth--I'm going to move. " "The fourth what? " said I. "The
fourth littery man that has been here in twenty-four hours--I'm going
to move. " "You don't tell me! " said I; "who were the others? " "Mr.
Longfellow, Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--consound the
lot! "

You can easily believe I was interested. I supplicated--three hot
whiskeys did the rest--and finally the melancholy miner began. Said he:

"They came here just at dark yesterday evening, and I let them in of
course. Said they were going to the Yosemite. They were a rough lot, but
that's nothing; everybody looks rough that travels afoot. Mr. Emerson
was a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed. Mr. Holmes was as fat as
a balloon; he weighed as much as three hundred, and had double chins
all the way down to his stomach. Mr. Longfellow was built like a
prizefighter. His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wig
made of hair-brushes. His nose lay straight down his face, like a finger
with the end joint tilted up. They had been drinking, I could see that.
And what queer talk they used! Mr. Holmes inspected this cabin, then he
took me by the buttonhole, and says he:



"'Through the deep caves of thought
I hear a voice that sings,
Build thee more stately mansions,
O my soul! '

"Says I, 'I can't afford it, Mr. Holmes, and moreover I don't want to. '
Blamed if I liked it pretty well, either, coming from a stranger, that
way. However, I started to get out my bacon and beans, when Mr. Emerson
came and looked on awhile, and then he takes me aside by the buttonhole
and says:



"'Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes. '

"Says I, 'Mr. Emerson, if you'll excuse me, this ain't no hotel. ' You
see it sort of riled me--I warn't used to the ways of littery swells.
But I went on a-sweating over my work, and next comes Mr. Longfellow and
buttonholes me, and interrupts me. Says he:



"'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis--'

"But I broke in, and says I, 'Beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow, if you'll
be so kind as to hold your yawp for about five minutes and let me get
this grub ready, you'll do me proud. ' Well, sir, after they'd filled up
I set out the jug. Mr. Holmes looks at it, and then he fires up all of a
sudden and yells:



"Flash out a stream of blood-red wine!
For I would drink to other days. '

"By George, I was getting kind of worked up. I don't deny it, I was
getting kind of worked up. I turns to Mr. Holmes, and says I, 'Looky
here, my fat friend, I'm a-running this shanty, and if the court knows
herself, you'll take whiskey straight or you'll go dry. ' Them's the
very words I said to him. Now I don't want to sass such famous littery
people, but you see they kind of forced me. There ain't nothing
onreasonable 'bout me; I don't mind a passel of guests a-treadin' on
my tail three or four times, but when it comes to standing on it it's
different, 'and if the court knows herself,' I says, 'you'll take
whiskey straight or you'll go dry. ' Well, between drinks they'd swell
around the cabin and strike attitudes and spout; and pretty soon they
got out a greasy old deck and went to playing euchre at ten cents a
corner--on trust. I began to notice some pretty suspicious things. Mr.
Emerson dealt, looked at his hand, shook his head, says:



"'I am the doubter and the doubt--'

and ca'mly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new layout.
Says he:



"'They reckon ill who leave me out;
They know not well the subtle ways I keep.
I pass and deal again! '

Hang'd if he didn't go ahead and do it, too! Oh, he was a cool one!
Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of a
sudden I see by Mr. Emerson's eye he judged he had 'em. He had already
corralled two tricks, and each of the others one. So now he kind of
lifts a little in his chair and says:



"'I tire of globes and aces!
Too long the game is played! '

--and down he fetched a right bower. Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as
pie and says:



"'Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught,'

--and blamed if he didn't down with another right bower! Emerson claps
his hand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went
under a bunk. There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes
rose up, wobbling his double chins, and says he, 'Order, gentlemen; the
first man that draws, I'll lay down on him and smother him! ' All quiet
on the Potomac, you bet!

"They were pretty how-come-you-so by now, and they begun to blow.
Emerson says, 'The nobbiest thing I ever wrote was "Barbara Frietchie. "'
Says Longfellow, 'It don't begin with my "Biglow Papers. "' Says Holmes,
'My "Thanatopsis" lays over 'em both. ' They mighty near ended in a
fight. Then they wished they had some more company--and Mr. Emerson
pointed to me and says:



"'Is yonder squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed? '

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot--so I let it pass. Well, sir,
next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; so
they made me stand up and sing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" till
I dropped-at thirteen minutes past four this morning. That's what I've
been through, my friend. When I woke at seven, they were leaving, thank
goodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on, and his'n under his
arm. Says I, 'Hold on, there, Evangeline, what are you going to do with
them? ' He says, 'Going to make tracks with 'em; because:



"'Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time. '

"As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours--and I'm
going to move; I ain't suited to a littery atmosphere. "

I said to the miner, "Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracious
singers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; these
were impostors. "

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he,
"Ah! impostors, were they? Are you? "

I did not pursue the subject, and since then I have not travelled on my
'nom de guerre' enough to hurt. Such was the reminiscence I was moved
to contribute, Mr. Chairman. In my enthusiasm I may have exaggerated
the details a little, but you will easily forgive me that fault, since
I believe it is the first time I have ever deflected from perpendicular
fact on an occasion like this.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

From Mark Twain's Autobiography.


January 11, 1906.

Answer to a letter received this morning:



DEAR MRS. H. ,--I am forever your debtor for reminding me of that
curious passage in my life. During the first year or, two after it
happened, I could not bear to think of it. My pain and shame were
so intense, and my sense of having been an imbecile so settled,
established and confirmed, that I drove the episode entirely from my
mind--and so all these twenty-eight or twenty-nine years I have
lived in the conviction that my performance of that time was coarse,
vulgar, and destitute of humor. But your suggestion that you and
your family found humor in it twenty-eight years ago moved me to
look into the matter. So I commissioned a Boston typewriter to
delve among the Boston papers of that bygone time and send me a copy
of it.

It came this morning, and if there is any vulgarity about it I am
not able to discover it. If it isn't innocently and ridiculously
funny, I am no judge. I will see to it that you get a copy.

What I have said to Mrs. H. is true. I did suffer during a year or two
from the deep humiliations of that episode. But at last, in 1888, in
Venice, my wife and I came across Mr. and Mrs. A. P. C. , of Concord,
Massachusetts, and a friendship began then of the sort which nothing
but death terminates. The C. 's were very bright people and in every way
charming and companionable. We were together a month or two in Venice
and several months in Rome, afterward, and one day that lamented break
of mine was mentioned. And when I was on the point of lathering those
people for bringing it to my mind when I had gotten the memory of it
almost squelched, I perceived with joy that the C. 's were indignant
about the way that my performance had been received in Boston. They
poured out their opinions most freely and frankly about the frosty
attitude of the people who were present at that performance, and about
the Boston newspapers for the position they had taken in regard to the
matter. That position was that I had been irreverent beyond belief,
beyond imagination. Very well; I had accepted that as a fact for a year
or two, and had been thoroughly miserable about it whenever I thought of
it--which was not frequently, if I could help it. Whenever I thought
of it I wondered how I ever could have been inspired to do so unholy
a thing. Well, the C. 's comforted me, but they did not persuade me to
continue to think about the unhappy episode. I resisted that. I tried to
get it out of my mind, and let it die, and I succeeded. Until Mrs. H. 's
letter came, it had been a good twenty-five years since I had thought
of that matter; and when she said that the thing was funny I wondered if
possibly she might be right.
I never heard Clemens speak when I thought he quite failed; some burst
or spurt redeemed him when he seemed flagging short of the goal, and,
whoever else was in the running, he came in ahead. His near-failures
were the error of a rare trust to the spontaneity in which other
speakers confide, or are believed to confide, when they are on
their feet. He knew that from the beginning of oratory the orator's
spontaneity was for the silence and solitude of the closet where he
mused his words to an imagined audience; that this was the use of
orators from Demosthenes and Cicero up and down. He studied every word
and syllable, and memorized them by a system of mnemonics peculiar
to himself, consisting of an arbitrary arrangement of things on a
table--knives, forks, salt-cellars; inkstands, pens, boxes, or whatever
was at hand--which stood for points and clauses and climaxes, and were
at once indelible diction and constant suggestion. He studied every tone
and every gesture, and he forecast the result with the real audience
from its result with that imagined audience. Therefore, it was beautiful
to see him and to hear him; he rejoiced in the pleasure he gave and the
blows of surprise which he dealt; and because he had his end in mind, he
knew when to stop.

I have been talking of his method and manner; the matter the reader has
here before him; and it is good matter, glad, honest, kind, just.

W. D. HOWELLS.





PREFACE

FROM THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION OF "MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES"

If I were to sell the reader a barrel of molasses, and he, instead of
sweetening his substantial dinner with the same at judicious intervals,
should eat the entire barrel at one sitting, and then abuse me for
making him sick, I would say that he deserved to be made sick for not
knowing any better how to utilize the blessings this world affords.
And if I sell to the reader this volume of nonsense, and he, instead of
seasoning his graver reading with a chapter of it now and then, when his
mind demands such relaxation, unwisely overdoses himself with several
chapters of it at a single sitting, he will deserve to be nauseated, and
he will have nobody to blame but himself if he is. There is no more sin
in publishing an entire volume of nonsense than there is in keeping a
candy-store with no hardware in it. It lies wholly with the customer
whether he will injure himself by means of either, or will derive
from them the benefits which they will afford him if he uses their
possibilities judiciously.

Respectfully submitted,

THE AUTHOR.



MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES





THE STORY OF A SPEECH



An address delivered in 1877, and a review of it twenty-nine
years later. The original speech was delivered at a dinner
given by the publishers of The Atlantic Monthly in honor of the
seventieth anniversary o f the birth of John Greenleaf
Whittier, at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877.

This is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up of pleasant
reminiscences concerning literary folk; therefore I will drop lightly
into history myself. Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic and
contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am reminded
of a thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had just
succeeded in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whose
spume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly Californiaward. I started an
inspection tramp through the southern mines of California. I was callow
and conceited, and I resolved to try the virtue of my 'nom de guerre'.

I very soon had an opportunity. I knocked at a miner's lonely log cabin
in the foot-hills of the Sierras just at nightfall. It was snowing at
the time. A jaded, melancholy man of fifty, barefooted, opened the door
to me. When he heard my 'nom de guerre' he looked more dejected than
before. He let me in--pretty reluctantly, I thought--and after the
customary bacon and beans, black coffee and hot whiskey, I took a pipe.
This sorrowful man had not said three words up to this time. Now he
spoke up and said, in the voice of one who is secretly suffering,
"You're the fourth--I'm going to move. " "The fourth what? " said I. "The
fourth littery man that has been here in twenty-four hours--I'm going
to move. " "You don't tell me! " said I; "who were the others? " "Mr.
Longfellow, Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--consound the
lot! "

You can easily believe I was interested. I supplicated--three hot
whiskeys did the rest--and finally the melancholy miner began. Said he:

"They came here just at dark yesterday evening, and I let them in of
course. Said they were going to the Yosemite. They were a rough lot, but
that's nothing; everybody looks rough that travels afoot. Mr. Emerson
was a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed. Mr. Holmes was as fat as
a balloon; he weighed as much as three hundred, and had double chins
all the way down to his stomach. Mr. Longfellow was built like a
prizefighter. His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wig
made of hair-brushes. His nose lay straight down his face, like a finger
with the end joint tilted up. They had been drinking, I could see that.
And what queer talk they used! Mr. Holmes inspected this cabin, then he
took me by the buttonhole, and says he:



"'Through the deep caves of thought
I hear a voice that sings,
Build thee more stately mansions,
O my soul! '

"Says I, 'I can't afford it, Mr. Holmes, and moreover I don't want to. '
Blamed if I liked it pretty well, either, coming from a stranger, that
way. However, I started to get out my bacon and beans, when Mr. Emerson
came and looked on awhile, and then he takes me aside by the buttonhole
and says:



"'Give me agates for my meat;
Give me cantharids to eat;
From air and ocean bring me foods,
From all zones and altitudes. '

"Says I, 'Mr. Emerson, if you'll excuse me, this ain't no hotel. ' You
see it sort of riled me--I warn't used to the ways of littery swells.
But I went on a-sweating over my work, and next comes Mr. Longfellow and
buttonholes me, and interrupts me. Says he:



"'Honor be to Mudjekeewis!
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis--'

"But I broke in, and says I, 'Beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow, if you'll
be so kind as to hold your yawp for about five minutes and let me get
this grub ready, you'll do me proud. ' Well, sir, after they'd filled up
I set out the jug. Mr. Holmes looks at it, and then he fires up all of a
sudden and yells:



"Flash out a stream of blood-red wine!
For I would drink to other days. '

"By George, I was getting kind of worked up. I don't deny it, I was
getting kind of worked up. I turns to Mr. Holmes, and says I, 'Looky
here, my fat friend, I'm a-running this shanty, and if the court knows
herself, you'll take whiskey straight or you'll go dry. ' Them's the
very words I said to him. Now I don't want to sass such famous littery
people, but you see they kind of forced me. There ain't nothing
onreasonable 'bout me; I don't mind a passel of guests a-treadin' on
my tail three or four times, but when it comes to standing on it it's
different, 'and if the court knows herself,' I says, 'you'll take
whiskey straight or you'll go dry. ' Well, between drinks they'd swell
around the cabin and strike attitudes and spout; and pretty soon they
got out a greasy old deck and went to playing euchre at ten cents a
corner--on trust. I began to notice some pretty suspicious things. Mr.
Emerson dealt, looked at his hand, shook his head, says:



"'I am the doubter and the doubt--'

and ca'mly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new layout.
Says he:



"'They reckon ill who leave me out;
They know not well the subtle ways I keep.
I pass and deal again! '

Hang'd if he didn't go ahead and do it, too! Oh, he was a cool one!
Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of a
sudden I see by Mr. Emerson's eye he judged he had 'em. He had already
corralled two tricks, and each of the others one. So now he kind of
lifts a little in his chair and says:



"'I tire of globes and aces!
Too long the game is played! '

--and down he fetched a right bower. Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as
pie and says:



"'Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught,'

--and blamed if he didn't down with another right bower! Emerson claps
his hand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went
under a bunk. There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes
rose up, wobbling his double chins, and says he, 'Order, gentlemen; the
first man that draws, I'll lay down on him and smother him! ' All quiet
on the Potomac, you bet!

"They were pretty how-come-you-so by now, and they begun to blow.
Emerson says, 'The nobbiest thing I ever wrote was "Barbara Frietchie. "'
Says Longfellow, 'It don't begin with my "Biglow Papers. "' Says Holmes,
'My "Thanatopsis" lays over 'em both. ' They mighty near ended in a
fight. Then they wished they had some more company--and Mr. Emerson
pointed to me and says:



"'Is yonder squalid peasant all
That this proud nursery could breed? '

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot--so I let it pass. Well, sir,
next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; so
they made me stand up and sing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" till
I dropped-at thirteen minutes past four this morning. That's what I've
been through, my friend. When I woke at seven, they were leaving, thank
goodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on, and his'n under his
arm. Says I, 'Hold on, there, Evangeline, what are you going to do with
them? ' He says, 'Going to make tracks with 'em; because:



"'Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime;
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time. '

"As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours--and I'm
going to move; I ain't suited to a littery atmosphere. "

I said to the miner, "Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracious
singers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; these
were impostors. "

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he,
"Ah! impostors, were they? Are you? "

I did not pursue the subject, and since then I have not travelled on my
'nom de guerre' enough to hurt. Such was the reminiscence I was moved
to contribute, Mr. Chairman. In my enthusiasm I may have exaggerated
the details a little, but you will easily forgive me that fault, since
I believe it is the first time I have ever deflected from perpendicular
fact on an occasion like this.



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

From Mark Twain's Autobiography.


January 11, 1906.

Answer to a letter received this morning:



DEAR MRS. H. ,--I am forever your debtor for reminding me of that
curious passage in my life. During the first year or, two after it
happened, I could not bear to think of it. My pain and shame were
so intense, and my sense of having been an imbecile so settled,
established and confirmed, that I drove the episode entirely from my
mind--and so all these twenty-eight or twenty-nine years I have
lived in the conviction that my performance of that time was coarse,
vulgar, and destitute of humor. But your suggestion that you and
your family found humor in it twenty-eight years ago moved me to
look into the matter. So I commissioned a Boston typewriter to
delve among the Boston papers of that bygone time and send me a copy
of it.

It came this morning, and if there is any vulgarity about it I am
not able to discover it. If it isn't innocently and ridiculously
funny, I am no judge. I will see to it that you get a copy.

What I have said to Mrs. H. is true. I did suffer during a year or two
from the deep humiliations of that episode. But at last, in 1888, in
Venice, my wife and I came across Mr. and Mrs. A. P. C. , of Concord,
Massachusetts, and a friendship began then of the sort which nothing
but death terminates. The C. 's were very bright people and in every way
charming and companionable. We were together a month or two in Venice
and several months in Rome, afterward, and one day that lamented break
of mine was mentioned. And when I was on the point of lathering those
people for bringing it to my mind when I had gotten the memory of it
almost squelched, I perceived with joy that the C. 's were indignant
about the way that my performance had been received in Boston. They
poured out their opinions most freely and frankly about the frosty
attitude of the people who were present at that performance, and about
the Boston newspapers for the position they had taken in regard to the
matter. That position was that I had been irreverent beyond belief,
beyond imagination. Very well; I had accepted that as a fact for a year
or two, and had been thoroughly miserable about it whenever I thought of
it--which was not frequently, if I could help it. Whenever I thought
of it I wondered how I ever could have been inspired to do so unholy
a thing. Well, the C. 's comforted me, but they did not persuade me to
continue to think about the unhappy episode. I resisted that. I tried to
get it out of my mind, and let it die, and I succeeded. Until Mrs. H. 's
letter came, it had been a good twenty-five years since I had thought
of that matter; and when she said that the thing was funny I wondered if
possibly she might be right. At any rate, my curiosity was aroused, and
I wrote to Boston and got the whole thing copied, as above set forth.

I vaguely remember some of the details of that gathering--dimly I can
see a hundred people--no, perhaps fifty--shadowy figures sitting at tables
feeding, ghosts now to me, and nameless forevermore. I don't know who
they were, but I can very distinctly see, seated at the grand table and
facing the rest of us, Mr. Emerson, supernaturally grave, unsmiling; Mr.
Whittier, grave, lovely, his beautiful spirit shining out of his face;
Mr. Longfellow, with his silken white hair and his benignant face;
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, flashing smiles and affection and all
good-fellowship everywhere like a rose-diamond whose facets are being
turned toward the light first one way and then another--a charming man,
and always fascinating, whether he was talking or whether he was sitting
still (what he would call still, but what would be more or less motion
to other people). I can see those figures with entire distinctness
across this abyss of time.

One other feature is clear--Willie Winter (for these past thousand years
dramatic editor of the New York Tribune, and still occupying that high
post in his old age) was there. He was much younger then than he is now,
and he showed 'it. It was always a pleasure to me to see Willie Winter
at a banquet. During a matter of twenty years I was seldom at a banquet
where Willie Winter was not also present, and where he did not read a
charming poem written for the occasion. He did it this time, and it was
up to standard: dainty, happy, choicely phrased, and as good to listen
to as music, and sounding exactly as if it was pouring unprepared out of
heart and brain.

Now at that point ends all that was pleasurable about that notable
celebration of Mr. Whittier's seventieth birthday--because I got up at
that point and followed Winter, with what I have no doubt I supposed
would be the gem of the evening--the gay oration above quoted from the
Boston paper. I had written it all out the day before and had
perfectly memorized it, and I stood up there at my genial and happy and
self-satisfied ease, and began to deliver it.