SKETCHES NEW AND OLD

by Mark Twain

Part 7.

First interview with Artemus Ward—­[Written about 1870.]

I had never seen him before.  He brought letters of introduction from mutual friends in San Francisco, and by invitation I breakfasted with him.  It was almost religion, there in the silver-mines, to precede such a meal with whisky cocktails.  Artemus, with the true cosmopolitan instinct, always deferred to the customs of the country he was in, and so he ordered three of those abominations.  Hingston was present.  I said I would rather not drink a whisky cocktail.  I said it would go right to my head, and confuse me so that I would be in a helpless tangle in ten minutes.  I did not want to act like a lunatic before strangers.  But Artemus gently insisted, and I drank the treasonable mixture under protest, and felt all the time that I was doing a thing I might be sorry for.  In a minute or two I began to imagine that my ideas were clouded.  I waited in great anxiety for the conversation to open, with a sort of vague hope that my understanding would prove clear, after all, and my misgivings groundless.

Artemus dropped an unimportant remark or two, and then assumed a look of superhuman earnestness, and made the following astounding speech.  He said: 

“Now there is one thing I ought to ask you about before I forget it.  You have been here in Silver land—­here in Nevada—­two or three years, and, of course, your position on the daily press has made it necessary for you to go down in the mines and examine them carefully in detail, and therefore you know all about the silver-mining business.  Now what I want to get at is—­is, well, the way the deposits of ore are made, you know.  For instance.  Now, as I understand it, the vein which contains the silver is sandwiched in between casings of granite, and runs along the ground, and sticks up like a curb stone.  Well, take a vein forty feet thick, for example, or eighty, for that matter, or even a hundred—­say you go down on it with a shaft, straight down, you know, or with what you call ‘incline’ maybe you go down five hundred feet, or maybe you don’t go down but two hundred—­anyway, you go down, and all the time this vein grows narrower, when the casings come nearer or approach each other, you may say—­that is, when they do approach, which, of course, they do not always do, particularly in cases where the nature of the formation is such that they stand apart wider than they otherwise would, and which geology has failed to account for, although everything in that science goes to prove that, all things being equal, it would if it did not, or would not certainly if it did, and then, of course, they are.  Do not you think it is?”

I said to myself: 

“Now I just knew how it would be—­that whisky cocktail has done the business for me; I don’t understand any more than a clam.”