It said,
“If Mark Twain dying send five hundred words. If dead send a thousand.”
Now that old letter of mine sold yesterday for forty-three dollars. When I am dead
it will be worth eighty-six.
Wednesday, April 4, 1906
The Morris case again—Scope of this autobiography, a mirror—More
about Nast sale; laurels for Mr. Clemens—Clippings in
regard to Women’s University Club reception; Mr. Clemens
comments on them—Vassar benefit at Hudson Theatre;
Mr. Clemens meets many old friends.
Nomination of Barnes Opens Way for an Inquiry.
Special to The New York Times.
WASHINGTON, April 3.—Criticism of the
appointment of
Mr. Roosevelt’s
Assistant Secretary,
B. F. Barnes, to be Postmaster of Washington continues. It
now seems likely that the appointment may have a hard time in passing the Senate.
Barnes’s action in having
Mrs. Minor Morris put out of the White House is the
chief ground of opposition. The Senate Committee on Post Offices and Post Roads
has determined to investigate Barnes’s action in the Morris case, and eye witnesses
of the affair have been summoned to appear before the committee to-morrow and
tell what they saw. This is the same investigation which
Mr. Tillman requested
and which the Senate refused to grant. It now comes as the result of the President’s
action in appointing Barnes Postmaster. The witnesses who are to appear before
the committee were not asked to testify in the investigation which the President
made when he decided that Barnes’s course was justified.
There was much speculation to-day as to who
Mr. Barnes’s successor as Assistant
Secretary would be. The
Evening Star to-night devotes a column and a half to suggestions
on the subject, saying that the leading candidates are John L. McGrew, a
clerk in the White House offices;
Warren Young, Chief Executive Clerk;
M. C. Latta, the President’s personal stenographer;
James J. Corbett of New York, Robert
Fitzsimmons,
Augustus Ruhlin, and
James J. Jeffries.
The article is illustrated with two pictures of Corbett and
Fitzsimmons.
That is neat, and causes me much gentle delight. The point of that whole matter lies
in the last four names that are mentioned in it. These four men are prize-fighters—the
most celebrated ones now living.
Is the incident now closed? Again we cannot tell. The smell of it may linger in
American history a thousand years yet.
This autobiography of mine
differs from other
autobiographies—differs from all other autobiographies, except
Benvenuto’s, perhaps. The conventional biography of all
the ages is an open window. The autobiographer sits there and examines and discusses
the people that go by—not all of them, but the notorious ones, the famous ones; those
that wear fine uniforms, and crowns when it is not raining; and very great poets and
great statesmen—illustrious people with whom he has had the high privilege of coming
in contact. He likes to toss a wave of recognition to these with his hand as they go by,
and he likes to notice that the others are seeing him do this, and admiring.
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