(HONOLULU CORRESPONDENT OF THE SACRAMENTO UNION)
WILL DELIVER A
LECTURE ON THE SANDWICH ISLANDS
AT THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC
ON TUESDAY EVENING, OCT. 2d
(1866)
In which passing mention will be made of Harris, Bishop Staley, the
American missionaries, etc., and the absurd customs and characteristics
of the natives duly discussed and described. The great volcano of
Kilauea will also receive proper attention.
A SPLENDID ORCHESTRA
is in town, but has not been engaged
ALSO
A DEN OF FEROCIOUS WILD BEASTS
will be on exhibition in the next block
MAGNIFICENT FIREWORKS
were in contemplation for this occasion, but the idea has been abandoned
A GRAND TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION may be expected; in fact, the public are
privileged to expect whatever they please.
Dress Circle, $1.00 Family Circle, 50c
Doors open at 7 o'clock The Trouble to begin at 8 o'clock
The story of that first lecture, as told in Roughing It, is a faithful
one, and need only be summarized here.
Expecting to find the house empty, he found it packed from the
footlights to the walls. Sidling out from the wings--wobbly-kneed and
dry of tongue--he was greeted by a murmur, a roar, a very crash of
applause that frightened away his remaining vestiges of courage. Then,
came reaction--these were his friends, and he began to talk to them.
Fear melted away, and as tide after tide of applause rose and billowed
and came breaking at his feet, he knew something of the exaltation of
Monte Cristo when he declared “The world is mine!”
It was a vast satisfaction to have succeeded. It was particularly
gratifying at this time, for he dreaded going back into newspaper
harness. Also; it softened later the disappointment resulting from
another venture; for when the December Harper appeared, with his
article, the printer and proof-reader had somehow converted Mark Twain
into “Mark Swain,” and his literary dream perished.
As to the literary value of his lecture, it was much higher than had,
been any portion of his letters, if we may judge from its few remaining
fragments. One of these--a part of the description of the great volcano
Haleakala, on the island of Maui--is a fair example of his eloquence.
It is somewhat more florid than his later description of the same scene
in Roughing It, which it otherwise resembles; and we may imagine that
its poetry, with the added charm of its delivery, held breathless his
hearers, many of whom believed that no purer eloquence had ever been
uttered or written.
It is worth remembering, too, that in this lecture, delivered so long
ago, he advocated the idea of American ownership of these islands,
dwelling at considerable length on his reasons for this ideal. --[For
fragmentary extracts from this first lecture of Mark Twain and news
comment, see Appendix D, end of last volume.]--There was a gross return
from his venture of more than $1,200, but with his usual business
insight, which was never foresight, he had made an arrangement by which,
after paying bills and dividing with his manager, he had only about
one-third of, this sum left. Still, even this was prosperity and
triumph. He had acquired a new and lucrative profession at a bound. The
papers lauded him as the “most piquant and humorous writer and lecturer
on the Coast since the days of the lamented John Phoenix.” He felt that
he was on the highroad at last.
Denis McCarthy, late of the Enterprise, was in San Francisco, and was
willing to become his manager. Denis was capable and honest, and Clemens
was fond of him. They planned a tour of the near-by towns, beginning
with Sacramento, extending it later even to the mining camps, such as
Red Dog and Grass Valley; also across into Nevada, with engagements at
Carson City, Virginia, and Gold Hill. It was an exultant and hilarious
excursion--that first lecture tour made by Denis McCarthy and Mark
Twain. Success traveled with them everywhere, whether the lecturer
looked across the footlights of some pretentious “opera-house” or
between the two tallow candles of some camp “academy.” Whatever the
building, it was packed, and the returns were maximum.
Those who remember him as a lecturer in that long-ago time say that his
delivery was more quaint, his drawl more exaggerated, even than in
later life; that his appearance and movements on the stage were natural,
rather than graceful; that his manuscript, which he carried under his
arm, looked like a ruffled hen. It was, in fact, originally written on
sheets of manila paper, in large characters, so that it could be read
easily by dim light, and it was doubtless often disordered.
There was plenty of amusing experience on this tour. At one place, when
the lecture was over, an old man came to him and said:
“Be them your natural tones of eloquence?”
At Grass Valley there was a rival show, consisting of a lady tight-rope
walker and her husband. It was a small place, and the tight-rope
attraction seemed likely to fail. The lady's husband had formerly been
a compositor on the Enterprise, so that he felt there was a bond of
brotherhood between him and Mark Twain.
“Look here,” he said. “Let's combine our shows. I'll let my wife do the
tight-rope act outside and draw a crowd, and you go inside and lecture.”
The arrangement was not made.
Following custom, the lecturer at first thought it necessary to be
introduced, and at each place McCarthy had to skirmish around and find
the proper person. At Red Dog, on the Stanislaus, the man selected
failed to appear, and Denis had to provide another on short notice. He
went down into the audience and captured an old fellow, who ducked and
dodged but could not escape. Denis led him to the stage, a good deal
frightened.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is the celebrated Mark Twain from
the celebrated city of San Francisco, with his celebrated lecture about
the celebrated Sandwich Islands.”
That was as far as he could go; but it was far enough. Mark Twain never
had a better introduction. The audience was in a shouting humor from the
start.
Clemens himself used to tell of an introduction at another camp, where
his sponsor said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know only two things about this man: the first
is that he's never been in jail, and the second is I don't know why.”
But this is probably apocryphal; there is too much “Mark Twain” in it.
When he reached Virginia, Goodman said to him:
“Sam, you do not need anybody to introduce you. There's a piano on the
stage in the theater. Have it brought out in sight, and when the curtain
rises you be seated at the piano, playing and singing that song of
yours, 'I Had an Old Horse Whose Name Was Methusalem,' and don't seem
to notice that the curtain is up at first; then be surprised when you
suddenly find out that it is up, and begin talking, without any further
preliminaries.”
This proved good advice, and the lecture, thus opened, started off with
general hilarity and applause.