ression in the
skull where the bump of self-conceit ought to be, and you say, 'A man
that knows his talents without being vain of them; who not only minds
his own business, but loves it, and who in that business, be it
buggy-whips or be it washine, or be it something far nobler,'--which,
let me say modestly, it is,--'simply goes to the head of the class and
stays there.' Yes, sirs, if I say that reading the human countenance
is one of my accomplishments, I am diffidently mindful that in this
company, I, myself, am read, perused; no other probably so well
read--I mean so exhaustively perused. For there is one thing about me,
gentlemen, if you'll allow me to say it, I'm short metre, large print,
and open to the public seven days in the week. And yet you probably
all make one mistake about me: you take me for the alumni of some
university. Not so. I'm a self-made man. I made myself; and
considering that I'm the first man I ever made, I think--pardon the
seeming egotism--I think I've done well. A few years ago there dwelt
in humble obscurity among the granite hills of New England, earning
his bread by the sweat of his brow upon his father's farm, a youth to
fortune and to fame unknown. But one day a voice within him said,
'Tarbox'--George W.,--namesake of the man who never told a lie,--'do
you want to succeed in life? Then leave the production of tobacco and
cider to unambitious age, and find that business wherein you can
always give a man ten times as much for his dollar as his dollar is
worth.' The meaning was plain, and from that time forth young Tarbox
aspired to become a book-agent. 'Twas not long ere he, like

'Young Harry Bluff, left his friends and his home,
And his dear native land, o'er the wide world to roam.'

Books became his line, and full soon he was the head of the line.
And why? Was it because in the first short twelve months of his
career he sold, delivered, and got the money for, 5107 copies of
'Mend-me-at-Home'? No. Was it, then, because three years later he
sold in one year, with no other assistance than a man to drive the
horse and wagon, hold the blackboard, and hand out the books, 10,003
copies of 'Rapid 'Rithmetic'? It was not. Was it, then, because in
1878, reading aright the public mind, he said to his publishers,
whose confidence in him was unbounded, 'It ain't "Mend-me-at-Home"
the people want most, nor "Rapid 'Rithmetic," nor "Heal Thyself,"
nor "I meet the Emergency," nor the "Bouque