Mr. Clemens visited Albany on February 21 and 28, 1901.  The
          privileges of the floor were granted and he was asked to make a
          short address to the Senate.

Mr. President and gentlemen,—­I do not know how to thank you sufficiently for this high honor which you are conferring upon me.  I have for the second time now enjoyed this kind of prodigal hospitality—­in the other House yesterday, to-day in this one.  I am a modest man, and diffident about appearing before legislative bodies, and yet utterly an entirely appreciative of a courtesy like this when it is extended to me, and I thank you very much for it.

If I had the privilege, which unfortunately I have not got, of suggesting things to the legislators in my individual capacity, I would so enjoy the opportunity that I would not charge anything for it at all.  I would do that without a salary.  I would give them the benefit of my wisdom and experience in legislative bodies, and if I could have had the privilege for a few minutes of giving advice to the other House I should have liked to, but of course I could not undertake it, as they did not ask me to do it—­but if they had only asked me!

Now that the House is considering a measure which is to furnish a water-supply to the city of New York, why, permit me to say I live in New York myself.  I know all about its ways, its desires, and its residents, and—­if I had the privilege—­I should have urged them not to weary themselves over a measure like that to furnish water to the city of New York, for we never drink it.

But I will not venture to advise this body, as I only venture to advise bodies who are, not present.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

ADDRESS AT THE ANNUAL “LADIES’ DAY,” PAPYRUS CLUB, BOSTON

Ladies and gentlemen,—­I am perfectly astonished—­a-s-t-o-n-i-s-h-e-d —­ladies and gentlemen—­astonished at the way history repeats itself.  I find myself situated at this moment exactly and precisely as I was once before, years ago, to a jot, to a tittle—­to a very hair.  There isn’t a shade of difference.  It is the most astonishing coincidence that ever —­but wait.  I will tell you the former instance, and then you will see it for yourself.  Years ago I arrived one day at Salamanca, New York, eastward bound; must change cars there and take the sleeper train.  There were crowds of people there, and they were swarming into the long sleeper train and packing it full, and it was a perfect purgatory of dust and confusion and gritting of teeth and soft, sweet, and low profanity.  I asked the young man in the ticket-office if I could have a sleeping-section, and he answered “No,” with a snarl that shrivelled me up like burned leather.  I went off, smarting under this insult to my dignity, and asked another local official, supplicatingly, if I couldn’t have some poor little corner somewhere