(Written 1869 and 1870, for the Buffalo _Express_, of which Mark Twain
became editor and part owner)
I
“SALUTATORY”
Being a stranger, it would be immodest and unbecoming in me to suddenly
and violently assume the associate editorship of the _Buffalo Express_
without a single explanatory word of comfort or encouragement to the
unoffending patrons of the paper, who are about to be exposed to
constant attacks of my wisdom and learning. But this explanatory word
shall be as brief as possible. I only wish to assure parties having a
friendly interest in the prosperity of the journal, that I am not going
to hurt the paper deliberately and intentionally at any time. I am not
going to introduce any startling reforms, or in any way attempt to make
trouble. I am simply going to do my plain, unpretending duty, when I
cannot get out of it; I shall work diligently and honestly and
faithfully at all times and upon all occasions, when privation and want
shall compel me to do it; in writing, I shall always confine myself
strictly to the truth, except when it is attended with inconvenience; I
shall witheringly rebuke all forms of crime and misconduct, except when
committed by the party inhabiting my own vest; I shall not make use of
slang or vulgarity upon any occasion or under any circumstances, and
shall never use profanity except in discussing house rent and taxes.
Indeed, upon second thought, I will not even use it then, for it is
unchristian, inelegant, and degrading--though to speak truly I do not
see how house rent and taxes are going to be discussed worth a cent
without it. I shall not often meddle with politics, because we have a
political editor who is already excellent, and only needs to serve a
term in the penitentiary in order to be perfect. I shall not write any
poetry, unless I conceive a spite against the subscribers.
Such is my platform. I do not see any earthly use in it, but custom is
law, and custom must be obeyed, no matter how much violence it may do to
one’s feelings. And this custom which I am slavishly following now is
surely one of the least necessary that ever came into vogue. In private
life a man does not go and trumpet his crime before he commits it, but
your new editor is such an important personage that he feels called upon
to write a “salutatory” at once, and he puts into it all that he knows,
and all that he don’t know, and some things he thinks he knows but isn’t
certain of. And he parades his list of wonders which he is going to
perform; of reforms which he is going to introduce, and public evils
which he is going to exterminate; and public blessings which he is going
to create; and public nuisances which he is going to abate. He spreads
this all out with oppressive solemnity over a column and a half of large
print, and feels that the country is saved. His satisfaction over it,
something enormous. He then settles down to his miracles and inflicts
profound platitudes and impenetrable wisdom upon a helpless public as
long as they can stand it, and then they send him off consul to some
savage island in the Pacific in the vague hope that the cannibals will
like him well enough to eat him. And with an inhumanity which is but a
fitting climax to his career of persecution, instead of packing his
trunk at once he lingers to inflict upon his benefactors a
“valedictory.” If there is anything more uncalled for than a
“salutatory,” it is one of those tearful, blubbering, long-winded
“valedictories”--wherein a man who has been annoying the public for ten
years cannot take leave of them without sitting down to cry a column and
a half. Still, it is the custom to write valedictories, and custom
should be respected. In my secret heart I admire my predecessor for
declining to print a valedictory, though in public I say and shall
continue to say sternly, it is custom and he ought to have printed one.
People never read them any more than they do the “salutatories,” but
nevertheless he ought to have honored the old fossil--he ought to have
printed a valedictory. I said as much to him, and he replied:
“I have resigned my place--I have departed this life--I am
journalistically dead, at present, ain’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Well, wouldn’t you consider it disgraceful in a corpse to sit up and
comment on the funeral?”
I record it here, and preserve it from oblivion, as the briefest and
best “valedictory” that has yet come under my notice.