Mark Twains Speeches | Page 6

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