But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and
trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward
utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters
that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very
decentest people in the land--and this grateful remembrance of mine ought
to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a year
ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.

Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners of
one's memory, now and then, without warning. Just at this moment a
picture flits before me: Scene--private room in Barnum's Restaurant,
Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T. Goodman, (editor and
proprietor Daily "Enterprise"), and "Dan de Quille" and myself, reporters
for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such tautology
and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to be offensive to
the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly reciting a poem about
a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting himself and being
interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table and shouts of
"Splendid, by Shorzhe!" Finally, a long, vociferous, poundiferous and
vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion, and then Artemus:
"Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates a poet 'at loves
his fellow man, stan' up!--Stan' up and drink health and long life to
Thomas Bailey Aldrich!--and drink it stanning!" (On all hands fervent,
enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.) Then Artemus:
"Well--consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!" Which was
done.

You must excuse all this stuff from a stranger, for the present, and when
I see you I will apologize in full.