short address to the Senate.
MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN,–I do not know how to thank you sufficiently
for this high honor which you are conferring upon me. I have for the
second time now enjoyed this kind of prodigal hospitality–in the other
House yesterday, to-day in this one. I am a modest man, and diffident
about appearing before legislative bodies, and yet utterly an entirely
appreciative of a courtesy like this when it is extended to me, and I
thank you very much for it.
If I had the privilege, which unfortunately I have not got, of suggesting
things to the legislators in my individual capacity, I would so enjoy the
opportunity that I would not charge anything for it at all. I would do
that without a salary. I would give them the benefit of my wisdom and
experience in legislative bodies, and if I could have had the privilege
for a few minutes of giving advice to the other House I should have liked
to, but of course I could not undertake it, as they did not ask me to do
it–but if they had only asked me!
Now that the House is considering a measure which is to furnish a water-
supply to the city of New York, why, permit me to say I live in New York
myself. I know all about its ways, its desires, and its residents, and–
if I had the privilege–I should have urged them not to weary themselves
over a measure like that to furnish water to the city of New York, for we
never drink it.
But I will not venture to advise this body, as I only venture to advise
bodies who are, not present.
MISTAKEN IDENTITY
ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL “LADIES’ DAY,” PAPYRUS CLUB, BOSTON
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,–I am perfectly astonished–a-s-t-o-n-i-s-h-e-d–
ladies and gentlemen–astonished at the way history repeats itself.
I find myself situated at this moment exactly and precisely as I was once
before, years ago, to a jot, to a tittle–to a very hair. There isn’t a
shade of difference. It is the most astonishing coincidence that ever–
but wait. I will tell you the former instance, and then you will see it
for yourself. Years ago I arrived one day at Salamanca, New York,
eastward bound; must change cars there and take the sleeper train. There
were crowds of people there, and they were swarming into the long sleeper
train and packing it full, and it was a perfect purgatory of dust and
confusion and gritting of teeth and soft, sweet, and low profanity.
I asked the young man in the ticket-office if I could have a sleeping-
section, and he answered “No,” with a snarl that shrivelled me up like
burned leather. I went off, smarting under this insult to my dignity,
and asked another local official, supplicatingly, if I couldn’t have some
poor little corner somewhere in a sleeping-car; but he cut me short with
a venomous “No, you can’t; every corner is full. Now, don’t bother me
any more”; and he turned his back and walked off. My dignity was in a
state now which cannot be described. I was so ruffled that–well, I said
to my companion, “If these people knew who I am they–“But my companion
cut me short there–“Don’t talk such folly,” he said; “if they did know
who you are, do you suppose it would help your high-mightiness to a
vacancy in a train which has no vacancies in it?”
This did not improve my condition any to speak of, but just then I
observed that the colored porter of a sleeping-car had his eye on me.
I saw his dark countenance light up. He whispered to the uniformed
conductor, punctuating with nods and jerks toward me, and straightway
this conductor came forward, oozing politeness from every pore.
“Can I be of any service to you ?” he asked. “Will you have a place in
the sleeper?”
“Yes,” I said, “and much oblige me, too. Give me anything–anything will
answer.”
“We have nothing left but the big family state-room,” he continued, “with
two berths and a couple of arm-chairs in it, but it is entirely at your
disposal. Here, Tom, take these satchels aboard!”