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.”]
GIRLS
In my capacity of publisher I recently received a manuscript from
a teacher which embodied a number of answers given by her pupils to
questions propounded. These answers show that the children had nothing
but the sound to go by—the sense was perfectly empty. Here are some of
their answers to words they were asked to define: Auriferous—pertaining
to an orifice; ammonia—the food of the gods; equestrian—one who asks
questions; parasite—a kind of umbrella; ipecaca—man who likes a good
dinner. And here is the definition of an ancient word honored by a
great party: Republican—a sinner mentioned in the Bible. And here is
an innocent deliverance of a zoological kind: “There are a good many
donkeys in the theological gardens.” Here also is a definition which
really isn't very bad in its way: Demagogue—a vessel containing beer and
other liquids. Here, too, is a sample of a boy's composition on girls,
which, I must say, I rather like:
“Girls are very stuckup and dignified in their manner and behaveyour.
They think more of dress than anything and like to play with dowls and
rags. They cry if they see a cow in a far distance and are afraid of
guns. They stay at home all the time and go to church every Sunday. They
are al-ways sick. They are al-ways furry and making fun of boys hands
and they say how dirty. They cant play marbles. I pity them poor things.
They make fun of boys and then turn round and love them. I don't belave
they ever kiled a cat or anything. They look out every nite and say,
'Oh, a'nt the moon lovely!'—Thir is one thing I have not told and that
is they al-ways now their lessons bettern boys.”
THE LADIES
DELIVERED AT THE ANNIVERSARY FESTIVAL, 1872, OF THE SCOTTISH
CORPORATION OF LONDON
Mr. Clemens replied to the toast “The Ladies.”
I am proud, indeed, of the distinction of being chosen to respond to
this especial toast, to “The Ladies,” or to women if you please, for
that is the preferable term, perhaps; it is certainly the older, and
therefore the more entitled to reverence. I have noticed that the
Bible, with that plain, blunt honesty which is such a conspicuous
characteristic of the Scriptures, is always particular to never refer
to even the illustrious mother of all mankind as a “lady,” but speaks of
her as a woman. It is odd, but you will find it is so. I am peculiarly
proud of this honor, because I think that the toast to women is one
which, by right and by every rule of gallantry, should take precedence
of all others—of the army, of the navy, of even royalty itself—perhaps,
though the latter is not necessary in this day and in this land, for the
reason that, tacitly, you do drink a broad general health to all good
women when you drink the health of the Queen of England and the Princess
of Wales. I have in mind a poem just now which is familiar to you
all, familiar to everybody. And what an inspiration that was, and how
instantly the present toast recalls the verses to all our minds when
the most noble, the most gracious, the purest, and sweetest of all poets
says:
“Woman! O woman!---er
Wom----”
However, you remember the lines; and you remember how feelingly, how
daintily, how almost imperceptibly the verses raise up before you,
feature by feature, the ideal of a true and perfect woman; and how, as
you contemplate the finished marvel, your homage grows into worship of
the intellect that could create so fair a thing out of mere breath, mere
words. And you call to mind now, as I speak, how the poet, with stern
fidelity to the history of all humanity, delivers this beautiful child
of his heart and his brain over to the trials and sorrows that must come
to all, sooner or later, that abide in the earth, and how the pathetic
story culminates in that apostrophe—so wild, so regretful, so full of
mournful retrospection. The lines run thus:
“Alas!--alas!--a--alas!
----Alas!--------alas!”
—and so on. I do not remember the rest; but, taken together, it seems to
me that poem is the noblest tribute to woman that human genius has ever
brought forth—and I feel that if I were to talk hours I could not do my
great theme completer or more graceful justice than I have now done in
simply quoting that poet's matchless words. The phases of the womanly
nature are infinite in their variety. Take any type of woman, and you
shall find in it something to respect, something to admire, something to
love. And you shall find the whole joining you heart and hand. Who was
more patriotic than Joan of Arc? Who was braver? Who has given us a
grander instance of self-sacrificing devotion? Ah! you remember, you
remember well, what a throb of pain, what a great tidal wave of grief
swept over us all when Joan of Arc fell at Waterloo. Who does not sorrow
for the loss of Sappho, the sweet singer of Israel? Who among us does
not miss the gentle ministrations, the softening influences, the humble
piety of Lucretia Borgia? Who can join in the heartless libel that says
woman is extravagant in dress when he can look back and call to mind our
simple and lowly mother Eve arrayed in her modification of the Highland
costume? Sir, women have been soldiers, women have been painters, women
have been poets. As long as language lives the name of Cleopatra will
live. And not because she conquered George III.—but because she wrote
those divine lines:
“Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so.”
The story of the world is adorned with the names of illustrious ones of
our own sex—some of them sons of St. Andrew, too—Scott, Bruce, Burns,
the warrior Wallace, Ben Nevis—the gifted Ben Lomond, and the great
new Scotchman, Ben Disraeli.—[Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, at that time
Prime Minister of England, had just been elected Lord Rector of
Glasgow University, and had made a speech which gave rise to a world
of discussion]—Out of the great plains of history tower whole mountain
ranges of sublime women: the Queen of Sheba, Josephine, Semiramis,
Sairey Gamp; the list is endless—but I will not call the mighty roll,
the names rise up in your own memories at the mere suggestion, luminous
with the glory of deeds that cannot die, hallowed by the loving worship
of the good and the true of all epochs and all climes. Suffice it for
our pride and our honor that we in our day have added to it such names
as those of Grace Darling and Florence Nightingale. Woman is all that
she should be—gentle, patient, longsuffering, trustful, unselfish,
full of generous impulses. It is her blessed mission to comfort the
sorrowing, plead for the erring, encourage the faint of purpose, succor
the distressed, uplift the fallen, befriend the friendless—in a word,
afford the healing of her sympathies and a home in her heart for all the
bruised and persecuted children that knock at its hospitable door. And
when I say, God bless her, there is none among us who has known the
ennobling affection of a wife, or the steadfast devotion of a mother but
in his heart will say, Amen!
WOMAN'S PRESS CLUB
On October 27, 1900, the New York Woman's Press Club gave a tea
in Carnegie Hall. Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor.
If I were asked an opinion I would call this an ungrammatical nation.
There is no such thing as perfect grammar, and I don't always speak good
grammar myself. But I have been foregathering for the past few days with
professors of American universities, and I've heard them all say things
like this: “He don't like to do it.” [There was a stir.] Oh, you'll hear
that to-night if you listen, or, “He would have liked to have done it.”
You'll catch some educated Americans saying that. When these men take
pen in hand they write with as good grammar as any. But the moment they
throw the pen aside they throw grammatical morals aside with it.
To illustrate the desirability and possibility of concentration, I must
tell you a story of my little six-year-old daughter. The governess
had been teaching her about the reindeer, and, as the custom was, she
related it to the family. She reduced the history of that reindeer to
two or three sentences when the governess could not have put it into a
page. She said: “The reindeer is a very swift animal. A reindeer once
drew a sled four hundred miles in two hours.” She appended the comment:
“This was regarded as extraordinary.” And concluded: “When that reindeer
was done drawing that sled four hundred miles in two hours it died.”
As a final instance of the force of limitations in the development of
concentration, I must mention that beautiful creature, Helen Keller,
whom I have known for these many years. I am filled with the wonder
of her knowledge, acquired because shut out from all distraction. If
I could have been deaf, dumb, and blind I also might have arrived at
something.
VOTES FOR WOMEN
AT THE ANNUAL MEETING OF THE HEBREW TECHNICAL SCHOOL FOR GIRLS,
HELD IN THE TEMPLE EMMANUEL, JANUARY 20, 1901
Mr. Clemens was introduced by President Meyer, who said: “In
one of Mr. Clemens's works he expressed his opinion of men,
saying he had no choice between Hebrew and Gentile, black men
or white; to him all men were alike. But I never could find
that he expressed his opinion of women; perhaps that opinion
was so exalted that he could not express it. We shall now be
called to hear what he thinks of women.”
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,—It is a small help that I can afford, but it is
just such help that one can give as coming from the heart through the
mouth. The report of Mr. Meyer was admirable, and I was as interested in
it as you have been. Why, I'm twice as old as he, and I've had so much
experience that I would say to him, when he makes his appeal for help:
“Don't make it for to-day or to-morrow, but collect the money on the
spot.”
We are all creatures of sudden impulse. We must be worked up by steam,
as it were. Get them to write their wills now, or it may be too late
by-and-by. Fifteen or twenty years ago I had an experience I shall
never forget. I got into a church which was crowded by a sweltering
and panting multitude. The city missionary of our town—Hartford—made a
telling appeal for help. He told of personal experiences among the poor
in cellars and top lofts requiring instances of devotion and help. The
poor are always good to the poor. When a person with his millions gives
a hundred thousand dollars it makes a great noise in the world, but he
does not miss it; it's the widow's mite that makes no noise but does the
best work.
I remember on that occasion in the Hartford church the collection was
being taken up. The appeal had so stirred me that I could hardly wait
for the hat or plate to come my way. I had four hundred dollars in my
pocket, and I was anxious to drop it in the plate and wanted to borrow
more. But the plate was so long in coming my way that the fever-heat of
beneficence was going down lower and lower—going down at the rate of a
hundred dollars a minute. The plate was passed too late. When it finally
came to me, my enthusiasm had gone down so much that I kept my four
hundred dollars—and stole a dime from the plate. So, you see, time
sometimes leads to crime.
Oh, many a time have I thought of that and regretted it, and I adjure
you all to give while the fever is on you.
Referring to woman's sphere in life, I'll say that woman is always
right. For twenty-five years I've been a woman's rights man. I have
always believed, long before my mother died, that, with her gray hairs
and admirable intellect, perhaps she knew as much as I did. Perhaps she
knew as much about voting as I.
I should like to see the time come when women shall help to make the
laws. I should like to see that whip-lash, the ballot, in the hands of
women. As for this city's government, I don't want to say much, except
that it is a shame—a shame; but if I should live twenty-five years
longer—and there is no reason why I shouldn't—I think I'll see women
handle the ballot. If women had the ballot to-day, the state of things
in this town would not exist.
If all the women in this town had a vote to-day they would elect a mayor
at the next election, and they would rise in their might and change the
awful state of things now existing here.
WOMAN-AN OPINION
ADDRESS AT AN EARLY BANQUET OF THE WASHINGTON
CORRESPONDENTS' CLUB
The twelfth toast was as follows: “Woman--The pride of any
profession, and the jewel of ours.”
MR. PRESIDENT,—I do not know why I should be singled out to receive the
greatest distinction of the evening—for so the office of replying to the
toast of woman has been regarded in every age. I do not know why I have
received this distinction, unless it be that I am a trifle less
homely than the other members of the club. But be this as it may, Mr.
President, I am proud of the position, and you could not have chosen any
one who would have accepted it more gladly, or labored with a heartier
good-will to do the subject justice than I—because, sir, I love the sex.
I love all the women, irrespective of age or color.
Human intellect cannot estimate what we owe to woman, sir. She sews on
our buttons; she mends our clothes; she ropes us in at the church fairs;
she confides in us; she tells us whatever she can find out about the
little private affairs of the neighbors; she gives us good advice, and
plenty of it; she soothes our aching brows; she bears our children—ours
as a general thing. In all relations of life, sir, it is but a just and
graceful tribute to woman to say of her that she is a brick.
Wheresoever you place woman, sir—in whatever position or estate—she
is an ornament to the place she occupies, and a treasure to the world.
[Here Mr. Clemens paused, looked inquiringly at his hearers, and
remarked that the applause should come in at this point. It came in.
He resumed his eulogy.] Look at Cleopatra! look at Desdemona!—look at
Florence Nightingale!—look at Joan of Arc!—look at Lucretia Borgia!
[Disapprobation expressed.] Well [said Mr. Clemens, scratching his head,
doubtfully], suppose we let Lucretia slide. Look at Joyce Heth!—look at
Mother Eve! You need not look at her unless you want to, but [said
Mr. Clemens, reflectively, after a pause] Eve was ornamental,
sir—particularly before the fashions changed. I repeat, sir, look at the
illustrious names of history. Look at the Widow Machree!—look at Lucy
Stone!—look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton!—look at George Francis Train!
And, sir, I say it with bowed head and deepest veneration—look at the
mother of Washington! She raised a boy that could not tell a lie—could
not tell a lie! But he never had any chance. It might have been
different if he had belonged to the Washington Newspaper Correspondents'
Club.
I repeat, sir, that in whatever position you place a woman she is an
ornament to society and a treasure to the world. As a sweetheart, she
has few equals and no superiors; as a cousin, she is convenient; as a
wealthy grandmother with an incurable distemper, she is precious; as a
wetnurse, she has no equal among men.