Rogers, to whom she dedicated her life book. And she has a right to feel
that way, because, without the public knowing anything about it, he
rescued, if I may use that term, that marvellous girl, that wonderful
Southern girl, that girl who was stone deaf, blind, and dumb from
scarlet-fever when she was a baby eighteen months old; and who now is as
well and thoroughly educated as any woman on this planet at twenty-nine
years of age. She is the most marvellous person of her sex that has
existed on this earth since Joan of Arc.
That is not all Mr. Rogers has done; but you never see that side of his
character, because it is never protruding; but he lends a helping hand
daily out of that generous heart of his. You never hear of it. He is
supposed to be a moon which has one side dark and the other bright.
But the other side, though you don’t see it, is not dark; it is bright,
and its rays penetrate, and others do see it who are not God.
I would take this opportunity to tell something that I have never been
allowed to tell by Mr. Rogers, either by my mouth or in print, and if I
don’t look at him I can tell it now.
In 1893, when the publishing company of Charles L. Webster, of which I
was financial agent, failed, it left me heavily in debt. If you will
remember what commerce was at that time you will recall that you could
not sell anything, and could not buy anything, and I was on my back; my
books were not worth anything at all, and I could not give away my
copyrights. Mr. Rogers had long enough vision ahead to say, “Your books
have supported you before, and after the panic is over they will support
you again,” and that was a correct proposition. He saved my copyrights,
and saved me from financial ruin. He it was who arranged with my
creditors to allow me to roam the face of the earth for four years and
persecute the nations thereof with lectures, promising that at the end of
four years I would pay dollar for dollar. That arrangement was made;
otherwise I would now be living out-of-doors under an umbrella, and a
borrowed one at that.
You see his white mustache and his head trying to get white (he is always
trying to look like me–I don’t blame him for that). These are only
emblematic of his character, and that is all. I say, without exception,
hair and all, he is the whitest man I have ever known.
THE OLD-FASHIONED PRINTER
ADDRESS AT THE TYPOTHETAE DINNER GIVEN AT DELMONICO’S,
JANUARY 18, 1886, COMMEMORATING THE BIRTHDAY OF
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Mr. Clemens responded to the toast “The Compositor.”
The chairman’s historical reminiscences of Gutenberg have caused me to
fall into reminiscences, for I myself am something of an antiquity.
All things change in the procession of years, and it may be that I am
among strangers. It may be that the printer of to-day is not the printer
of thirty-five years ago. I was no stranger to him. I knew him well.
I built his fire for him in the winter mornings; I brought his water from
the village pump; I swept out his office; I picked up his type from under
his stand; and, if he were there to see, I put the good type in his case
and the broken ones among the “hell matter”; and if he wasn’t there to
see, I dumped it all with the “pi” on the imposing-stone–for that was
the furtive fashion of the cub, and I was a cub. I wetted down the paper
Saturdays, I turned it Sundays–for this was a country weekly; I rolled,
I washed the rollers, I washed the forms, I folded the papers, I carried
them around at dawn Thursday mornings. The carrier was then an object of
interest to all the dogs in town. If I had saved up all the bites I ever
received, I could keep M. Pasteur busy for a year. I enveloped the
papers that were for the mail–we had a hundred town subscribers and