I did not see him again for some ten years. In the meantime I had become very thoroughly notorious.
Then, in 1879, the general had just returned from his journey through the European and Asiatic world, and his progress from San Francisco eastward had been one continuous ovation; and now he was to be feasted in Chicago by the veterans of the Army of the Tennessee—the first army over which he had had command. The preparations for this occasion were in keeping with the importance of it. The toast committee telegraphed me and asked me if I would be present and respond at the grand banquet to the toast to the ladies. I telegraphed back that the toast was worn out. Everything had been said about the ladies that could be said at a banquet, but there was one class of the community that had always been overlooked upon such occasions and if they would allow me I would take that class for a toast—The Babies. They were willing, so I prepared my toast and went out to Chicago.
There was to be a prodigious procession. General Grant was to review it from a rostrum which had been built out for the purpose from the second-story window of the Palmer House. The rostrum was carpeted and otherwise glorified with flags and so on.
The best place of all to see the procession was, of course, from this rostrum, so I sauntered upon that rostrum, while as yet it was empty, in the hope that I might be permitted to sit there. It was rather a conspicuous place, since upon it the public gaze was fixed and there was a countless multitude below. Presently two gentlemen came upon that platform from the window of the hotel and stepped forward to the front. A prodigious shout went up from the vast multitude below, and I recognized in one of these two gentlemen General Grant; the other was Carter Harrison, the Mayor of Chicago, with whom I was acquainted. He saw me, stepped over to me, and said wouldn’t I like to be introduced to the general? I said I should. So he walked over with me and said, “General, let me introduce Mr. Clemens.” We shook hands. There was the usual momentary pause, and then the general said: “I am not embarrassed. Are you?”
It showed that he had a good memory for trifles as well as for serious things.
That banquet was by all odds the most notable one I was ever present at. There were six hundred persons present, mainly veterans of the Army of the Tennessee, and that in itself would have made it a most notable occasion of the kind in my experience, but there were other things which contributed. General Sherman, and in fact nearly all of the surviving great generals of the war, sat in a body on a dais round about General Grant.
The speakers were of a rare celebrity and ability.
That night I heard for the first time a slang expression which had already come into considerable vogue, but I had not myself heard it before.
When the speaking began about ten o’clock, I left my place at the table and went away over to the front side of the great dining room, where I could take in the whole spectacle at one glance. Among others, Colonel Vilas was to respond to a toast, and also Colonel Ingersoll, the silver-tongued infidel, who had begun life in Illinois and was exceedingly popular there. Vilas was from Wisconsin and was very famous as an orator. He had prepared himself superbly for this occasion.
He was about the first speaker on the list of fifteen toasts, and Bob Ingersoll was the ninth.
I had taken a position upon the steps in front of the brass band, which lifted me up and gave me a good general view. Presently I noticed, leaning against the wall near me, a simple-looking young man wearing the uniform of a private and the badge of the Army of the Tennessee. He seemed to be nervous and ill at ease about something; presently, while the second speaker was talking, this young man said, “Do you know Colonel Vilas?” I said I had been introduced to him. He sat silent awhile and then said, “They say he is hell when he gets started!”
I said: “In what way? What do you mean?”
“Speaking! Speaking! They say he is lightning!”
“Yes,” I said, “I have heard that he is a great speaker.”
The young man shifted about uneasily for a while, and then he said, “Do you reckon he can get away with Bob Ingersoll?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
Another pause. Occasionally he and I would join in the applause when a speaker was on his legs, but this young man seemed to applaud unconsciously.
Presently he said, “Here, in Illinois, we think there can’t nobody get away with Bob Ingersoll.”
I said, “Is that so?”
He said, “Yes; we don’t think anybody can lay over Bob Ingersoll.” Then he added sadly, “But they do say that Vilas is pretty nearly hell.”
At last Vilas rose to speak, and this young man pulled himself together and put on all his anxiety. Vilas began to warm up and the people began to applaud. He delivered himself of one especially fine passage and there was a general shout: “Get up on the table! Get up on the table! Stand up on the table! We can’t see you!” So a lot of men standing there picked Vilas up and stood him on the table in full view of the whole great audience, and he went on with his speech. The young man applauded
