Mark Twains Speeches
contributor: Eric Lease Morgan (Infomotions, Inc.)
creator: Twain, Mark
date: 0000-00-00
extent: 516962
format: text/plain
language: en
publisher: Eris Etext Project
rights: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/GPL/2.0/
source: 4
subject: man
subject: time
subject: people
subject: sell
subject: reader
subject: barrel
subject: molasses
subject: twain
subject: mark
subject: twains
subject: speeches
subject: american
subject: literature
type: text
local mirror: twain-mark-414.txt
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plain html: twain-mark-414.htm
sort title: Mark Twains Speeches
full text: 1906 MARK TWAIN'S SPEECHES by Mark Twain PREFACE PREFACE. FROM THE PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION OF "MARK TWAIN'S SKETCHES." If I were to sell the reader a barrel of molasses, and he, instead of sweetening his substantial dinner with the same at judicious intervals, should eat the entire barrel at one sitting, and then abuse me for making him sick, I would say that he deserved to be made sick for not knowing any better how to utilize the blessings this world affords. And if I sell to the reader this volume of nonsense, and he, instead of seasoning his graver reading with a chapter of it now and then, when his mind demands such relaxation, unwisely overdoses himself with several chapters of it at a single sitting, he will deserve to be nauseated, and he will have nobody to blame but himself if he is. There is no more sin in publishing an entire volume of nonsense than there is in keeping a candy-store with no hardware in it. It lies wholly with the customer whether he will injure himself by means of either, or will derive from them the benefits which they will afford him if he uses their possibilities judiciously. Respectfully submitted, THE AUTHOR. THE STORY OF A SPEECH. An address delivered in 1877, and a review of it twenty-nine years later. The original speech was delivered at a dinner given by the publishers of The Atlantic Monthly in honor of the seventieth anniversary of the birth of John Greenleaf Whittier, at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877. THIS is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up of pleasant reminiscences concerning literary folk; therefore I will drop lightly into history myself. Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic and contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am reminded of a thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had just succeeded in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whose spume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly Californiaward. I started an inspection tramp throug…