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