Mark Twain's Speeches

Morals And Memory

Mr. Clemens was the guest of honor at a reception held at Barnard College (Columbia University), March 7, 1906, by the Barnard Union. One of the young ladies presented Mr. Clemens, and thanked him for his amiability in coming to make them an address. She closed with the expression of the great joy it gave her fellow-collegians, “because we all love you.”

If any one here loves me, she has my sincere thanks. Nay, if any one here is so good as to love me – why, I’ll be a brother to her. She shall have my sincere, warm, unsullied affection. When I was coming up in the car with the very kind young lady who was delegated to show me the way, she asked me what I was going to talk about. And I said I wasn’t sure. I said I had some illustrations, and I was going to bring them in. I said I was certain to give those illustrations, but that I hadn’t the faintest notion what they were going to illustrate.

Now, I’ve been thinking it over in this forest glade [indicating the woods of Arcady on the scene setting], and I’ve decided to work them in with something about morals and the caprices of memory. That seems to me to be a pretty good subject. You see, everybody has a memory and it’s pretty sure to have caprices. And, of course, everybody has morals.

It’s my opinion that every one I know has morals, though I wouldn’t like to ask. I know I have. But I’d rather teach them than practice them any day. “Give them to others”—that’s my motto. Then you never have any use for them when you’re left without. Now, speaking of the caprices of memory in general, and of mine in particular, it’s strange to think of all the tricks this little mental process plays on us. Here we’re endowed with a faculty of mind that ought to be more supremely serviceable to us than them all. And what happens? This memory of ours stores up a perfect record of the most useless facts and anecdotes and experiences. And all the things that we ought to know – that we need to know – that we’d profit by knowing – it casts aside with the careless indifference of a girl refusing her true lover. It’s terrible to think of this phenomenon. I tremble in all my members when I consider all the really valuable things that I’ve forgotten in seventy years – when I meditate upon the caprices of my memory.

There’s a bird out in California that is one perfect symbol of the human memory. I’ve forgotten the bird’s name (just because it would be valuable for me to know it – to recall it to your own minds, perhaps).

But this fool of a creature goes around collecting the most ridiculous things you can imagine and storing them up. He never selects a thing that could ever prove of the slightest help to him; but he goes about gathering iron forks, and spoons, and tin cans, and broken mouse-traps – all sorts of rubbish that is difficult for him to carry and yet be any use when he gets it. Why, that bird will go by a gold watch to bring back one of those patent cake-pans.

Now, my mind is just like that, and my mind isn’t very different from yours – and so our minds are just like that bird. We pass by what would be of inestimable value to us, and pack our memories with the most trivial odds and ends that never by any chance; under any circumstances whatsoever, could be of the slightest use to any one.

Now, things that I have remembered are constantly popping into my head. And I am repeatedly startled by the vividness with which they recur to me after the lapse of years and their utter uselessness in being remembered at all.

I was thinking over some on my way up here. They were the illustrations I spoke about to the young lady on the way up. And I’ve come to the conclusion, curious though it is, that I can use every one of these freaks of memory to teach you all a lesson. I’m convinced that each one has its moral. And I think it’s my duty to hand the moral on to you.

Now, I recall that when I was a boy I was a good boy – I was a very good boy. Why, I was the best boy in my school. I was the best boy in that little Mississippi town where I lived. The population was only about twenty million. You may not believe it, but I was the best boy in that State – and in the United States, for that matter.

But I don’t know why I never heard any one say that but myself. I always recognized it. But even those nearest and dearest to me couldn’t seem to see it. My mother, especially, seemed to think there was something wrong with that estimate. And she never got over that prejudice.

Now, when my mother got to be eighty-five years old her memory failed her. She forgot little threads that hold life’s patches of meaning together. She was living out West then, and I went on to visit her.

I hadn’t seen my mother in a year or so. And when I got there she knew my face; knew I was married; knew I had a family, and that I was living with them. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, tell my name or who I was. So I told her I was her boy.

“But you don’t live with me,” she said.

“No,” said I, “I’m living in Rochester.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Going to school.”

“Large school?”

“Very large.”

“All boys?”

“All boys.”

“And how do you stand?” said my mother.

“I’m the best boy in that school,” I answered.

“Well,” said my mother, with a return of her old fire, “I’d like to know what the other boys are like.”

Now, one point in this story is the fact that my mother’s mind went back to my school days, and remembered my little youthful self-prejudice when she’d forgotten everything else about me.

The other point is the moral. There’s one there that you will find if you search for it.

Now, here’s something else I remember. It’s about the first time I ever stole a watermelon. “Stole” is a strong word. Stole? Stole? No, I don’t mean that. It was the first time I ever withdrew a watermelon. It was the first time I ever extracted a watermelon. That is exactly the word I want—“extracted.” It is definite. It is precise. It perfectly conveys my idea. Its use in dentistry connotes the delicate shade of meaning I am looking for. You know we never extract our own teeth.

And it was not my watermelon that I extracted. I extracted that watermelon from a farmer’s wagon while he was inside negotiating with an other customer. I carried that watermelon to one of the secluded recesses of the lumber-yard, and there I broke it open.

It was a green watermelon.

Well, do you know when I saw that I began to feel sorry – sorry – sorry. It seemed to me that I had done wrong. I reflected deeply. I reflected that I was young – I think I was just eleven. But I knew that though immature I did not lack moral advancement. I knew what a boy ought to do who had extracted a watermelon – like that.

I considered George Washington, and what action he would have taken under similar circumstances. Then I knew there was just one thing to make me feel right inside, and that was – Restitution.

So I said to myself: “I will do that. I will take that green watermelon back where I got it from.” And the minute I had said it I felt that great moral uplift that comes to you when you’ve made a noble resolution.

So I gathered up the biggest fragments, and I carried them back to the farmer’s wagon, and I restored the watermelon – what was left of it. And I made him give me a good one in place of it, too.

And I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself going around working off his worthless, old, green watermelons on trusting purchasers who had to rely on him. How could they tell from the outside whither the melons were good or not? That was his business. And if he didn’t reform, I told him I’d see that he didn’t get any more of my trade – nor anybody, else’s I knew, if I could help it.

You know that man was as contrite as a revivalist’s last convert. He said he was all broken up to think I’d gotten a green watermelon. He promised the he would never carry another green watermelon if he starved for it. And he drove off – a better man.

Now, do you see what I did for that man? He was on a downward path, and I rescued him. But all I got out of it was a watermelon.

Yet I’d rather have that memory – just that memory of the good I did for that depraved farmer – than all the material gain you can think of. Look at the lesson he got! I never got anything like that from it. But I ought to be satisfied: I was only eleven years old, but I secured everlasting benefit to other people.

The moral in this is perfectly clear, and I think there’s one in they next memory I’m going to tell you about.

To go back to my childhood, there’s another little incident that comes to me from which you can draw even another moral. It’s about one of the times I went fishing. You see, in our house there was a sort of family prejudice against going fishing if you hadn’t permission. But it would frequently be bad judgment to ask. So I went fishing secretly, as it were – way up the Mississippi. It was an exquisitely happy trip, I recall, with a very pleasant sensation.

Well, while I was away there was a tragedy in our town. A stranger, stopping over on his way East from California; was stabbed to death in an unseemly brawl.

Now; my father was justice of the peace, and because he was justice of the peace he was coroner; and since he was coroner he was also constable; and being constable he was sheriff; and out of consideration for his holding the office of sheriff he was likewise county clerk and a dozen other officials I don’t think of just this minute.

I thought he had power of life or death, only he didn’t use it over other boys. He was sort of an austere man. Somehow I didn’t like being round him when I’d done anything he, disapproved of. So that’s the reason I wasn’t often around.

Well, when this gentleman got knifed they communicated with the proper authority; the coroner, and they laid, the corpse out in the coroner’s office – our front sitting-room – in preparation for the inquest the next morning.

About 9 or 10 o’clock I got back from fishing. It was a little too late for me to be received by my folks, so I took my shoes off and slipped noiselessly up the back way to the sitting-room. I was very tired, and I didn’t wish to disturb my people. So I groped my way to the sofa and lay down.

Now, I didn’t know anything of what had happened during my absence. But I was sort of nervous on my own account-afraid of being caught, and rather dubious about the morning affair. And I had been lying there a few moments when my eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and I became aware of something on the other side of the room.

It was something foreign to the apartment. It had an uncanny appearance. And I sat up looking very hard, and wondering what in heaven this long, formless, vicious-looking thing might be.

First I thought I’d go and see. Then I thought, “Never mind that.”

Mind you, I had no cowardly sensations whatever, but it didn’t seem exactly prudent to investigate. But I somehow couldn’t keep my eyes off the thing. And the more I looked at it the more disagreeably it grew on me. But I was resolved to play the man. So I decided to turn over and count a hundred, and let the patch of moonlight creep up and show me what the dickens it was.

I turned over and tried to count, but I couldn’t keep my mind on it. I kept thinking of that grewsome mass. I was losing count all the time, and going back and beginning over again. Oh no; I wasn’t frightened – just annoyed. But by the time I’d gotten to the century mark I turned cautiously over and opened my eyes with great fortitude.

The moonlight revealed to me a marble-white human hand. Well, maybe I wasn’t embarrassed! But then that changed to a creepy feeling again, and I thought I’d try the counting again. I don’t know how many hours or weeks it was that I lay there counting hard. But the moonlight crept up that white arm, and it showed me a lead face and a terrible wound over the heart.

I could scarcely say that I was terror-stricken or anything like that. But somehow his eyes interested me so that I went right out of the window. I didn’t need the sash. But it seemed easier to take it than leave it behind.

Now, let that teach you a lesson – I don’t know just what it is. But at seventy years old I find that memory of peculiar value to me. I have been unconsciously guided by it all these years. Things that seemed pigeon-holed and remote are a perpetual influence. Yes, you’re taught in so many ways. And you’re so felicitously taught when you don’t know it.

Here’s something else that taught me a good deal.

When I was seventeen I was very bashful, and a sixteen-year-old girl came to stay a week with us. She was a peach, and I was seized with a happiness not of this world.

One evening my mother suggested that, to entertain her, I take her to the theatre. I didn’t really like to, because I was seventeen and sensitive about appearing in the streets with a girl. I couldn’t see my way to enjoying my delight in public. But we went.

I didn’t feel very happy. I couldn’t seem to keep my mind on the play. I became conscious, after a while, that that was due less to my lovely company than my boots. They were sweet to look upon, as smooth as skin, but fitted ten time as close. I got oblivious to the play and the girl and the other people and everything but my boots until – I hitched one partly off. The sensation was sensuously perfect: I couldn’t help it. I had to get the other off, partly. Then I was obliged to get them off altogether, except that I kept my feet in the legs so they couldn’t get away.

From that time I enjoyed the play. But the first thing I knew the curtain came down, like that, without my notice, and – I hadn’t any boots on. What’s more, they wouldn’t go on. I tugged strenuously. And the people in our row got up and fussed and said things until the peach and I simply had to move on.

We moved – the girl on one arm and the boots under the other.

We walked home that way, sixteen blocks, with a retinue a mile long: Every time we passed a lamp-post, death gripped one at the throat. But we, got home – and I had on white socks.

If I live to be nine hundred and ninety-nine years old I don’t suppose I could ever forget that walk. I, remember, it about as keenly as the chagrin I suffered on another occasion.

At one time in our domestic history we had a colored butler who had a failing. He could never remember to ask people who came to the door to state their business. So I used to suffer a good many calls unnecessarily.

One morning when I was especially busy he brought me a card engraved with a name I did not know. So I said, “What does he wish to see me for?” and Sylvester said, “Ah couldn’t ask him, sah; he, wuz a genlinun.” “Return instantly,” I thundered, “and inquire his mission. Ask him what’s his game.” Well, Sylvester returned with the announcement that he had lightning-rods to sell. “Indeed,” said I, “things are coming to a fine pass when lightning-rod agents send up engraved cards.” “He has pictures,” added Sylvester. “Pictures, indeed! He maybe peddling etchings. Has he a Russia leather case?” But Sylvester was too frightened to remember. I said; “I am going down to make it hot for that upstart!”

I went down the stairs, working up my temper all the way. When I got to the parlor I was in a fine frenzy concealed beneath a veneer of frigid courtesy. And when I looked in the door, sure enough he had a Russia leather case in his hand. But I didn’t happen to notice that it was our Russia leather case.

And if you’d believe me, that man was sitting with a whole gallery of etchings spread out before him. But I didn’t happen to notice that they were our etchings, spread out by some member of my family for some unguessed purpose.

Very curtly I asked the gentleman his business. With a surprised, timid manner he faltered that he had met my wife and daughter at Onteora, and they had asked him to call. Fine lie, I thought, and I froze him.

He seemed to be kind of non-plussed, and sat there fingering the etchings in the case until I told him he needn’t bother, because we had those. That pleased him so much that he leaned over, in an embarrassed way, to pick up another from the floor. But I stopped him. I said, “We’ve got that, too.” He seemed pitifully amazed, but I was congratulating myself on my great success.

Finally the gentleman asked where Mr. Winton lived; he’d met him in the mountains, too. So I said I’d show him gladly. And I did on the spot. And when he was gone I felt queer, because there were all his etchings spread out on the floor.

Well, my wife came in and asked me who had been in. I showed her the card, and told her all exultantly. To my dismay she nearly fainted. She told me he had been a most kind friend to them in the country, and had forgotten to tell me that he was expected our way. And she pushed me out of the door, and commanded me to get over to the Wintons in a hurry and get him back.

I came into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Winton was sitting up very stiff in a chair, beating me at my own game. Well, I began, to put another light on things. Before many seconds Mrs. Winton saw it was time to change her temperature. In five minutes I had asked the man to luncheon, and she to dinner, and so on.

We made that fellow change his trip and stay a week, and we gave him the time of his life. Why, I don’t believe we let him get sober the whole time.

I trust that you will carry away some good thought from these lessons I have given you, and that the memory of them will inspire you to higher things, and elevate you to plans far above the old – and – and—

And I tell you one thing, young ladies: I’ve had a better time with you to-day than with that peach fifty-three years ago.

Queen Victoria

Address to the British schools and universities club, at Delmonico’s, Monday, may 25, in honor of Queen Victoria’s birthday Mr. Clemens told the story of his duel with a rival editor: how he practised firing at a barn door and failed to hit it, but a friend of his took off the head of a little bird at thirty-five yards and attributed the shot to Mark twain. The duel did not take place. Mr. Clemens continued as follows:

It also happened that I was the means of stopping duelling in Nevada, for a law was passed sending all duellists to jail for two years, and the Governor, hearing of my marksmanship, said that if he got me I should go to prison for the full term. That’s why I left Nevada, and I have not been there since.

You do me a high honor, indeed, in selecting me to speak of my country in this commemoration of the birthday of that noble lady whose life was consecrated to the virtues and the humanities and to the promotion of lofty ideals, and was a model upon which many a humbler life was formed and made beautiful while she lived, and upon which many such lives will still be formed in the generations that are to come – a life which finds its just image in the star which falls out of its place in the sky and out of existence, but whose light still streams with unfaded lustre across the abysses of space long after its fires have been extinguished at their source.

As a woman the Queen was all that the most exacting standards could require. As a far-reaching and effective beneficent moral force she had no peer in her time among either, monarchs or commoners. As a monarch she was without reproach in her great office. We may not venture, perhaps, to say so sweeping a thing as this in cold blood about any monarch that preceded her upon either her own throne or upon any other. It is a colossal eulogy, but it is justified.

In those qualities of the heart which beget affection in all sorts and conditions of men she was rich, surprisingly rich, and for this she will still be remembered and revered in the far-off ages when the political glories of her reign shall have faded from vital history and fallen to a place in that scrap-heap of unverifiable odds and ends which we call tradition. Which is to say, in briefer phrase, that her name will live always. And with it her character – a fame rare in the history of thrones, dominions, principalities, and powers, since it will not rest upon harvested selfish and sordid ambitions, but upon love, earned and freely vouchsafed. She mended broken hearts where she could, but she broke none.

What she did for us in America in our time of storm and stress we shall not forget, and whenever we call it to mind we shall always remember the wise and righteous mind that guided her in it and sustained and supported her – Prince Albert’s. We need not talk any idle talk here to-night about either possible or impossible war between the two countries; there will be no war while we remain sane and the son of Victoria and Albert sits upon the throne. In conclusion, I believe I may justly claim to utter the voice of my country in saying that we hold him in deep honor, and also in cordially wishing him a long life and a happy reign.

Joan Of Arc

Address at the dinner of the society of illustrators, given at the Aldine association club, December 22, 1905

Just before Mr. Clemens made his speech, a young woman attired as Joan of Arc, with a page bearing her flag of battle, courtesied reverently and tendered Mr. Clemens a laurel wreath on a satin pillow. He tried to speak, but his voice failed from excess of emotion. “I thank you!” he finally exclaimed, and, pulling him self together, he began his speech.

Now there is an illustration [pointing to the retreating Joan of Arc]. That is exactly what I wanted – precisely what I wanted – when I was describing to myself Joan of Arc, after studying her history and her character for twelve years diligently.