Who is Mark Twain? (2 of 55)

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Who is Mark Twain? by Mark Twain. Copyright 2009 by Harper Collins.
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Frank Fuller and My First New York Lecture

Celebrities of the time who couldn’t come (explain why) and who could. (Boss Tweed. He was there.)

Although I was utterly unknown, every one of the most celebrated men of that day, was invited to come. It has always been my pride that that distinction was shown me. I hope it will not be regarded as immodest in me if I name some of these. First in the list by every right is Grant—scene-photograph—anecdote (grand description of his services). General Grant—he was not able to come. Sheridan—scene-photograph—had just finished his great Indian campaign, and was tired—of disturbances—and—he was not present.

Sherman—scene-photo—Lt. Gen—was head of the Army and was reforming the rest of it—he did not need reforming himself—and was obliged to be absent.

Gen. Thomas—he couldn’t come.

Gen. Logan wanted to come, but was not well and could not sleep where there was noise.

Admiral Farragut—just at that time a child was born to—not to him, and I don’t remember now who it was born to, and now I come to think, I believe it was not born that year—but anyway he couldn’t come.

General Lee was delayed—so was Longstreet

Commodore Vanderbilt engagement

Peter Cooper, Depew (very young) engagement

Horace Greeley

P. of Wales (26 or 27) photo. tried to send regrets but was overcome by his feelings.

Gladstone and Disraeli

The present Kaiser (about 3 yrs old) sent regrets—was overworked and frail in health—trying to learn German.

Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Bryant, Emerson, Lowell

Cleveland, mayor of Buffalo.

Andrew Johnson

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Every one of these illustrious men was sorry, and sent regrets;—even——lamentations. But it is something that they wanted to come.

Boss Tweed, Heenan,—and have a number of photos from Sing Sing,—or a group—in penitentiary costume. These came. I do not know their names, but they were all public men and served the State.

My photo—Fuller’s—both young.

F’s conscience—take a shovel and dig for it.

As soon as a man recognizes that he has drifted into age, he gets reminiscent. He wants to talk and talk; and not about the present or the future, but about his old times. For there is where the pathos of his life lies—and the charm of it. The pathos of it is there because it was opulent with treasures that are gone, and the charm of it is in casting them up from the musty ledgers and remembering how rich and gracious they were.

Yes, and when a man gets old he wants to explain his past. He calls it that; but as a rule what he really wants to do is to whitewash it. I don’t want to whitewash mine, for it doesn’t need it. I have kept it in that kind of repair all the time. But I do want to explain one circumstance which has been a burden to me for 30 years; and that is, how I came to intrude upon this city—a city which had never done me any harm—and invite it to come 3,000 strong and hear me lecture in Cooper Institute, when nobody knew who I was, or had ever heard of me. It must have seemed a strange impertinence, and indeed it was.

But it was not my fault. I was entirely without blame in the matter, and have always felt that in fairness I ought to be allowed to clear myself. I do not mean as a matter of right, but as a favor, an indulgence, a privilege. None but the old can ask a grace like this without indelicacy, and so long as I was young I bore my pain as I might, and waited for the compassions due to age to privilege me to speak.

No, it was not my fault. It was the fault of an old and particular friend of mine—a man who is still my old and particular friend—a friend who, for brevity’s sake—concealment’s sake—I will call Fuller—Frank Fuller. It was a great mistake that he committed—that he innocently committed. There are two private versions of the matter—his and mine. One of them is not true. I have always had more confidence in mine, because although he was older than I, he had not had as much practice in telling the truth.

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