It was the following Sunday, at the Majestic Theater, in New York, that Mark Twain spoke to the Young Men’s Christian Association.  For several reasons it proved an unusual meeting.  A large number of free tickets had been given out, far more than the place would hold; and, further, it had been announced that when the ticket-holders had been seated the admission would be free to the public.  The subject chosen for the talk was “Reminiscences.”

When we arrived the streets were packed from side to side for a considerable distance and a riot was in progress.  A great crowd had swarmed about the place, and the officials, instead of throwing the doors wide and letting the theater fill up, regardless of tickets, had locked them.  As a result there was a shouting, surging human mass that presently dashed itself against the entrance.  Windows and doors gave way, and there followed a wild struggle for entrance.  A moment later the house was packed solid.  A detachment of police had now arrived, and in time cleared the street.  It was said that amid the tumult some had lost their footing and had been trampled and injured, but of this we did not learn until later.  We had been taken somehow to a side entrance and smuggled into boxes.—­[The paper next morning bore the head-lines:  “10,000 Stampeded at the Mark Twain Meeting.  Well-dressed Men and Women Clubbed by Police at Majestic Theater.”  In this account the paper stated that the crowd had collected an hour before the time for opening; that nothing of the kind had been anticipated and no police preparation had been made.]

It was peaceful enough in the theater until Mark Twain appeared on the stage.  He was wildly greeted, and when he said, slowly and seriously, “I thank you for this signal recognition of merit,” there was a still noisier outburst.  In the quiet that followed he began his memories, and went wandering along from one anecdote to another in the manner of his daily dictations.

At last it seemed to occur to him, in view of the character of his audience, that he ought to close with something in the nature of counsel suited to young men.

It is from experiences such as mine [he said] that we get our education of life.  We string them into jewels or into tinware, as we may choose.  I have received recently several letters asking for counsel or advice, the principal request being for some incident that may prove helpful to the young.  It is my mission to teach, and I am always glad to furnish something.  There have been a lot of incidents in my career to help me along—­sometimes they helped me along faster than I wanted to go.

He took some papers from his pocket and started to unfold one of them; then, as if remembering, he asked how long he had been talking.  The answer came, “Thirty-five minutes.”  He made as if to leave the stage, but the audience commanded him to go on.

“All right,” he said, “I can stand more of my own talk than any one I ever knew.”  Opening one of the papers, a telegram, he read: