told that it was usual to wear the black gown: Later he had found that
three other men wore bright gowns, and he had lamented that he had been
one of the black mass, and not a red torch.
Edison wrote: “The average American loves his family. If he has any love
left over for some other person, he generally selects Mark Twain.”
Now here’s the compliment of a little Montana girl which came to me
indirectly. She was in a room in which there was a large photograph of
me. After gazing at it steadily for a time, she said:
“We’ve got a John the Baptist like that.” She also said: “Only ours has
more trimmings.”
I suppose she meant the halo. Now here is a gold-miner’s compliment.
It is forty-two years old. It was my introduction to an audience to
which I lectured in a log school-house. There were no ladies there.
I wasn’t famous then. They didn’t know me. Only the miners were there,
with their breeches tucked into their boottops and with clay all over
them. They wanted some one to introduce me, and they selected a miner,
who protested, saying:
“I don’t know anything about this man. Anyhow, I only know two things
about him. One is, he has never been in jail, and the other is, I don’t
know why.”
There’s one thing I want to say about that English trip. I knew his
Majesty the King of England long years ago, and I didn’t meet him for the
first time then. One thing that I regret was that some newspapers said
I talked with the Queen of England with my hat on. I don’t do that with
any woman. I did not put it on until she asked me to. Then she told me
to put it on, and it’s a command there. I thought I had carried my
American democracy far enough. So I put it on. I have no use for a hat,
and never did have.
Who was it who said that the police of London knew me? Why, the police
know me everywhere. There never was a day over there when a policeman
did not salute me, and then put up his hand and stop the traffic of the
world. They treated me as though I were a duchess.
The happiest experience I had in England was at a dinner given in the
building of the Punch publication, a humorous paper which is appreciated
by all Englishmen. It was the greatest privilege ever allowed a
foreigner. I entered the dining-room of the building, where those men
get together who have been running the paper for over fifty years. We
were about to begin dinner when the toastmaster said: “Just a minute;
there ought to be a little ceremony.” Then there was that meditating
silence for a while, and out of a closet there came a beautiful little
girl dressed in pink, holding in her hand a copy of the previous week’s
paper, which had in it my cartoon. It broke me all up. I could not even
say “Thank you.” That was the prettiest incident of the dinner, the
delight of all that wonderful table. When she was about to go; I said,
“My child, you are not going to leave me; I have hardly got acquainted
with you.” She replied, “You know I’ve got to go; they never let me come
in here before, and they never will again.” That is one of the beautiful
incidents that I cherish.
[At the conclusion of his speech, and while the diners were
still cheering him, Colonel Porter brought forward the red-and-
gray gown of the Oxford “doctor,” and Mr. Clemens was made to
don it. The diners rose to their feet in their enthusiasm.
With the mortar-board on his head, and looking down admiringly
at himself, Mr. Twain said–]
I like that gown. I always did like red. The redder it is the better
I like it. I was born for a savage. Now, whoever saw any red like this?
There is no red outside the arteries of an archangel that could compare
with this. I know you all envy me. I am going to have luncheon shortly