Time passed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that Time passes on.—It is a kind of way Time has.
I became a man. I haven't distinguished myself at all as an artist—but I have always been more or less mixed up with Art. I have an uncle who takes photographs—and I have a servant who—takes anything he can get his hands on.
When I was in Rome—Rome in New York State I mean—a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said "No." I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands—he would have flooded the market with my busts—and I couldn't stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course—and wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand—and I should have to return to America—where my creditors are.
I like Art. I admire dramatic Art—although I failed as an actor.
It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor.—The play was "the Ruins of Pompeii."—I played the Ruins. It was not a very successful performance—but it was better than the "Burning Mountain." He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask—"Where are the boys of my youth?"—I assure you this is not a conundrum.—Some are amongst you here—some in America—some are in gaol.—
Hence arises a most touching question—"Where are the girls of my youth?" Some are married—some would like to be.
Oh my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy—because I am.*—some people are not happy. I have noticed that.
*(Spoken with a sigh. It was a joke which always told. Artemus never failed to use it in his "Babes in the Wood" lecture, and the "Sixty Minutes in Africa," as well as in the Mormon story.)
A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said, "Why these weeps?" He said he had a mortgage on his farm—and wanted to borrow 200 pounds. I lent him the money—and he went away. Some time after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me for ever. I ventured to remind him of the 200 pounds he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him—so I told him I would throw off one hundred pounds. He brightened—shook my hand—and said—"Old friend—I won't allow you to outdo me in liberality—I'll throw off the other hundred."