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.

He always means to speak the truth—no one who knows him will deny him that credit—he always means to speak the truth—and then forgets. He was—and is—an excellent man: fine, generous, cordial, unselfish, a man of fine and original mind, of lovable nature, of blemishless character, a sterling and steadfast friend through all weathers, a man of gracious dreams, of radiant visions, of splendid enthusiasms, colossal enthusiasms, an optimist in the zenith of whose soul the sun always shines, a magnified and ennobled Col. Sellers, a charming man—indeed, a perfect man—with that one defect. Just that one defect: that he can imitate the truth so that the Recording Angel himself would set it down in his book—and just as like as not reject statements of mine. Edit them, anyway. It is a wonderful and beautiful gift. I wish I had it. I have often tried to imitate the truth—oh, not latterly, but when I was younger—but it was not for me. It is a gift—it cannot be acquired.

I first knew Judge Fuller in Great Salt Lake City, in the summer of ’61. He has always had titles. He was Archbishop Fuller then. He was not connected with any Church. It was only a decoration. It was an office which did not exist. There was no Church there but the Mormon Church, and it had only Bishops, and the Bishoprics were all full. So Fuller took the title of Archbishop because he wanted to be something, and there was no other vacancy. And he was entitled to some such reward, on account of religious services which he had rendered the Church in keeping a broker’s office where wives and children and such things could be exchanged for the necessaries of life.

Next I knew him in Nevada Territory. He was ex-Governor then; not ex-Governor of any particular commonwealth, but just ex-Governor at large. He wanted to be something, and there was no other vacancy.