been putting in merely twenty-six hours a day dictating my autobiography,
which, as John Phoenix said in regard to his autograph, may be relied
upon as authentic, as it is written exclusively by me. But it is not to
be published in full until I am thoroughly dead. I have made it as
caustic, fiendish, and devilish as possible. It will fill many volumes,
and I shall continue writing it until the time comes for me to join the
angels. It is going to be a terrible autobiography. It will make the
hair of some folks curl. But it cannot be published until I am dead, and
the persons mentioned in it and their children and grandchildren are
dead. It is something awful!
“Can you tell us the names of some of the notables that are here to see
you off?”
I don’t know. I am so shy. My shyness takes a peculiar phase. I never
look a person in the face. The reason is that I am afraid they may know
me and that I may not know them, which makes it very embarrassing for
both of us. I always wait for the other person to speak. I know lots of
people, but I don’t know who they are. It is all a matter of ability to
observe things. I never observe anything now. I gave up the habit years
ago. You should keep a habit up if you want to become proficient in it.
For instance, I was a pilot once, but I gave it up, and I do not believe
the captain of the Minneapolis would let me navigate his ship to London.
Still, if I think that he is not on the job I may go up on the bridge and
offer him a few suggestions.
COLLEGE GIRLS
Five hundred undergraduates, under the auspices of the Woman’s
University Club, New York, welcomed Mr. Clemens as their guest,
April 3, 1906, and gave him the freedom of the club, which the
chairman explained was freedom to talk individually to any girl
present.
I’ve worked for the public good thirty years, so for the rest of my life
I shall work for my personal contentment. I am glad Miss Neron has fed
me, for there is no telling what iniquity I might wander into on an empty
stomach–I mean, an empty mind.
I am going to tell you a practical story about how once upon a time I was
blind–a story I should have been using all these months, but I never
thought about telling it until the other night, and now it is too late,
for on the nineteenth of this month I hope to take formal leave of the
platform forever at Carnegie Hall–that is, take leave so far as talking
for money and for people who have paid money to hear me talk. I shall
continue to infest the platform on these conditions–that there is nobody
in the house who has paid to hear me, that I am not paid to be heard, and
that there will be none but young women students in the audience. [Here
Mr. Clemens told the story of how he took a girl to the theatre while he
was wearing tight boots, which appears elsewhere in this volume, and
ended by saying: “And now let this be a lesson to you–I don’t know what
kind of a lesson; I’ll let you think it out.]
GIRLS
In my capacity of publisher I recently received a manuscript from a
teacher which embodied a number of answers given by her pupils to
questions propounded. These answers show that the children had nothing
but the sound to go by–the sense was perfectly empty. Here are some of
their answers to words they were asked to define: Auriferous–pertaining
to an orifice; ammonia–the food of the gods; equestrian–one who asks
questions; parasite–a kind of umbrella; ipecaca–man who likes a good
dinner. And here is the definition of an ancient word honored by a great
party: Republican–a sinner mentioned in the Bible. And here is an
innocent deliverance of a zoological kind: “There are a good many donkeys
in the theological gardens.” Here also is a definition which really