Mark Twains Speeches | Page 5

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.