I have read there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it.
I revere that library. It is the author’s friend. I don’t care how mean
a book is, it always takes one copy. [A copy of every book printed in
Great Britain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much
complained of by publishers.] And then every day that author goes there
to gaze at that book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work.
And what a touching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor,
careworn clergymen gathered together in that vast reading–room cabbaging
sermons for Sunday. You will pardon my referring to these things.
Everything in this monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from
talking, even at the risk of being instructive. People here seem always
to express distances by parables. To a stranger it is just a little
confusing to be so parabolic–so to speak. I collar a citizen, and I
think I am going to get some valuable information out of him. I ask him
how far it is to Birmingham, and he says it is twenty-one shillings and
sixpence. Now we know that doesn’t help a man who is trying to learn.
I find myself down-town somewhere, and I want to get some sort of idea
where I am–being usually lost when alone–and I stop a citizen and say:
“How far is it to Charing Cross?” “Shilling fare in a cab,” and off he
goes. I suppose if I were to ask a Londoner how far it, is from the
sublime to the ridiculous, he would try to express it in coin. But I am
trespassing upon your time with these geological statistics and
historical reflections. I will not longer keep you from your orgies.
‘Tis a real pleasure for me to be here, and I thank you for it. The name
of the Savage Club is associated in my mind with the kindly interest and
the friendly offices which you lavished upon an old friend of mine who
came among you a stranger, and you opened your English hearts to him and
gave him welcome and a home–Artemus Ward. Asking that you will join me,
I give you his memory.
PRINCETON
Mr. Clemens spent several days in May, 1901, in Princeton, New
Jersey, as the guest of Lawrence Hutton. He gave a reading one
evening before a large audience composed of university students
and professors. Before the reading Mr. Clemens said:
I feel exceedingly surreptitious in coming down here without an
announcement of any kind. I do not want to see any advertisements
around, for the reason that I’m not a lecturer any longer. I reformed
long ago, and I break over and commit this sin only just one time this
year: and that is moderate, I think, for a person of my disposition. It
is not my purpose to lecture any more as long as I live. I never intend
to stand up on a platform any more–unless by the request of a sheriff or
something like that.
THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT “MARK TWAIN”
The Countess de Rochambeau christened the St. Louis harbor-boat
‘Mark Twain’ in honor of Mr. Clemens, June 6, 1902. Just
before the luncheon he acted as pilot.
“Lower away lead!” boomed out the voice of the pilot.
“Mark twain, quarter five and one-half-six feet!” replied the
leadsman below.
“You are all dead safe as long as I have the wheel–but this is
my last time at the wheel.”
At the luncheon Mr. Clemens made a short address.
First of all, no–second of all–I wish to offer my thanks for the honor
done me by naming this last rose of summer of the Mississippi Valley for
me, this boat which represents a perished interest, which I fortified
long ago, but did not save its life. And, in the first place, I wish to
thank the Countess de Rochambeau for the honor she has done me in
presiding at this christening.
I believe that it is peculiarly appropriate that I should be allowed the
privilege of joining my voice with the general voice of St. Louis and
Missouri in welcoming to the Mississippi Valley and this part of the