Life in Hartford, in the autumn of 1871, began in the letter, rather
than in the spirit. The newcomers were received with a wide, neighborly
welcome, but the disorder of establishment and the almost immediate
departure of the head of the household on a protracted lecturing tour
were disquieting things; the atmosphere of the Clemens home during those
early Hartford days gave only a faint promise of its future loveliness.
As in a far later period, Mark Twain had resorted to lecturing to pay
off debt. He still owed a portion of his share in the Express; also
he had been obliged to obtain an advance from the lecture bureau. He
dreaded, as always, the tedium of travel, the clatter of hotel life,
the monotony of entertainment, while, more than most men, he loved the
tender luxury of home. It was only that he could not afford to lose the
profit offered on the platform.
His season opened at Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, October 16th, and his
schedule carried him hither and thither, to and fro, over distances that
lie between Boston and Chicago. There were opportunities to run into
Hartford now and then, when he was not too far away, and in November he
lectured there on Artemus Ward.
He changed his entertainment at least twice that season. He began with
the “Reminiscences,” the lecture which he said would treat of all those
whom he had met, “idiots, lunatics, and kings,” but he did not like it,
or it did not go well. He wrote Redpath of the Artemus Ward address:
“It suits me, and I'll never deliver the nasty, nauseous 'Reminiscences'
any more.”
But the Ward lecture was good for little more than a month, for on
December 8th he wrote again:
Notify all hands that from this time I shall talk nothing but
selections from my forthcoming book, 'Roughing It'. Tried it twice
last night; suits me tiptop.
And somewhat later:
Had a splendid time with a splendid audience in Indianapolis last
night; a perfectly jammed house, just as I have all the time out
here.... I don't care now to have any appointments canceled. I'll
even “fetch” those Dutch Pennsylvanians with this lecture.
Have paid up $4,000 indebtedness. You are the last on my list.
Shall begin to pay you in a few days, and then I shall be a free man
again.
Undoubtedly he reveled in the triumphs of a platform tour, though at no
time did he regard it as a pleasure excursion. During those early weeks
the proofs of his new book, chasing him from place to place, did not add
to his comfort. Still, with large, substantial rewards in hand and in
prospect, one could endure much.
In the neighborhood of Boston there were other compensations. He could
spend a good part of his days at the Lyceum headquarters, in School
Street, where there was always congenial fellowship--Nasby, Josh
Billings, and the rest of the peripatetic group that about the end of
the year collected there. Their lectures were never tried immediately
in Boston, but in the outlying towns; tried and perfected--or discarded.
When the provincial audiences were finally satisfied, then the final.
test in the Boston Music Hall was made, and if this proved successful
the rest of the season was safe. Redpath's lecturers put up at Young's
Hotel, and spent their days at the bureau, smoking and spinning yarns,
or talking shop. Early in the evening they scattered to the outlying
towns, Lowell, Lexington, Concord, New Bedford. There is no such a
condition to-day: lecturers are few, lecture bureaus obscure; there are
no great reputations made on the platform.
Neither is there any such distinct group of humorists as the one just
mentioned. Humor has become universal since then. Few writers of this
age would confess to taking their work so seriously as to be at all
times unsmiling in it; only about as many, in fact, as in that day would
confess to taking their work so lightly that they could regard life's
sterner phases and philosophies with a smile.
Josh Billings was one of the gentlest and loveliest of our pioneers of
laughter. The present generation is not overfamiliar even with his name,
but both the name and sayings of that quaint soul were on everybody's
lips at the time of which we are writing. His true name was Henry W.
Shaw, and he was a genuine, smiling philosopher, who might have built
up a more permanent and serious reputation had he not been induced to
disfigure his maxims with ridiculous spelling in order to popularize
them and make them bring a living price. It did not matter much with
Nasby's work. An assumed illiteracy belonged with the side of life which
he presented; but it is pathetic now to consider some of the really
masterly sayings of Josh Billings presented in that uncouth form which
was regarded as a part of humor a generation ago. Even the aphorisms
that were essentially humorous lose value in that degraded spelling.
“When a man starts down hill everything is greased for the occasion,”
could hardly be improved upon by distorted orthography, and here are a
few more gems which have survived that deadly blight.
“Some folks mistake vivacity for wit; whereas the difference between
vivacity and wit is the same as the difference between the lightning-bug
and the lightning.”
“Don't take the bull by the horns-take him by the tail; then you can let
go when you want to.”
“The difficulty is not that we know so much, but that we know so much
that isn't so.”
Josh Billings, Nasby, and Mark Twain were close friends. They had
themselves photographed in a group, and there was always some pleasantry
going on among them. Josh Billings once wrote on “Lekturing,” and
under the head of “Rule Seven,” which treated of unwisdom of inviting a
lecturer to a private house, he said:
Think of asking Mark Twain home with yu, for instance. Yure good
wife has put her house in apple-pie order for the ockashun;
everything is just in the right place. Yu don't smoke in yure
house, never. Yu don't put yure feet on the center-table, yu don't
skatter the nuzepapers all over the room, in utter confushion: order
and ekonemy governs yure premises. But if yu expeckt Mark Twain to
be happy, or even kumfortable yu hav got to buy a box of cigars
worth at least seventeen dollars and yu hav got to move all the
tender things out ov yure parlor. Yu hav got to skatter all the
latest papers around the room careless, you hav got to hav a pitcher
ov icewater handy, for Mark is a dry humorist. Yu hav got to ketch
and tie all yure yung ones, hed and foot, for Mark luvs babys only
in theory; yu hav got to send yure favorite kat over to the nabors
and hide yure poodle. These are things that hav to be done, or Mark
will pak hiz valise with hiz extry shirt collar and hiz lektur on
the Sandwich Islands, and travel around yure streets, smoking and
reading the sighns over the store doorways untill lektur time
begins.
As we-are not likely to touch upon Mark Twain's lecturing, save only
lightly, hereafter, it may be as well to say something of his method at
this period. At all places visited by lecturers there was a committee,
and it was the place of the chairman to introduce the lecturer, a
privilege which he valued, because it gave him a momentary association
with distinction and fame. Clemens was a great disappointment to these
officials. He had learned long ago that he could introduce himself more
effectively than any one else. His usual formula was to present himself
as the chairman of the committee, introducing the lecturer of the
evening; then, with what was in effect a complete change of personality,
to begin his lecture. It was always startling and amusing, always a
success; but the papers finally printed this formula, which took the
freshness out of it, so that he had to invent others. Sometimes he got
up with the frank statement that he was introducing himself because he
had never met any one who could pay a proper tribute to his talents;
but the newspapers printed that too, and he often rose and began with no
introduction at all.
Whatever his method of beginning, Mark Twain's procedure probably was
the purest exemplification of the platform entertainer's art which
this country has ever seen. It was the art that makes you forget the
artisanship, the art that made each hearer forget that he was not being
personally entertained by a new and marvelous friend, who had traveled
a long way for his particular benefit. One listener has written that
he sat “simmering with laughter” through what he supposed was the
continuation of the introduction, waiting for the traditional lecture to
begin, when presently the lecturer, with a bow, disappeared, and it was
over. The listener looked at his watch; he had been there more than an
hour. He thought it could be no more than ten minutes, at most. Many
have tried to set down something of the effect his art produced on them,
but one may not clearly convey the story of a vanished presence and a
silent voice.
There were other pleasant associations in Boston. Howells was there, and
Aldrich; also Bret Harte, who had finished his triumphal progress across
the continent to join the Atlantic group. Clemens appears not to have
met Aldrich before, though their acquaintance had begun a year earlier,
when Aldrich, as editor of Every Saturday, had commented on a poem
entitled, “The Three Aces,” which had appeared in the Buffalo Express.
Aldrich had assumed the poem to be the work of Mark Twain, and had
characterized it as “a feeble imitation of Bret Harte's 'Heathen
Chinee.'” Clemens, in a letter, had mildly protested as to the charge of
authorship, and Aldrich had promptly printed the letter with apologetic
explanation. A playful exchange of personal letters followed, and the
beginning of a lifelong friendship.
One of the letters has a special interest here. Clemens had followed his
protest with an apology for it, asking that no further notice be taken
of the matter. Aldrich replied that it was too late to prevent “doing
him justice,” as his explanation was already on the press, but that if
Clemens insisted he would withdraw it in the next issue. Clemens then
wrote that he did not want it withdrawn, and explained that he hated to
be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, to whom he was deeply indebted
for literary schooling in the California days. Continuing he said:
Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot
through Harte's brain? It was this. When they were trying to
decide upon a vignette cover for the Overland a grizzly bear (of the
arms of the State of California) was chosen. Nahl Bros. carved him
and the page was printed with him in it.
As a bear he was a success. He was a good bear, but then, it was
objected, he was an objectless bear--a bear that meant nothing,
signified nothing, simply stood there, snarling over his shoulder at
nothing, and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-natured
intruder upon the fair page. All hands said that none were
satisfied; they hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as
much to have him there when there was no point to him. But
presently Harte took a pencil and drew two simple lines under his
feet, and behold he was a magnificent success!--the ancient symbol
of California savagery, snarling at the approaching type of high and
progressive civilization, the first Overland locomotive! I just
think that was nothing less than an inspiration.--[The “bear” was
that which has always appeared on the Overland cover; the “two
lines” formed a railway track under his feet. Clemens's original
letter contained crude sketches illustrating these things.]
Among the Boston group was another Californian, Ralph Keeler, an
eccentric, gifted, and altogether charming fellow, whom Clemens had
known on the Pacific slope. Keeler had been adopted by the Boston
writers, and was grateful and happy accordingly. He was poor of
purse, but inexhaustibly rich in the happier gifts of fortune. He was
unfailingly buoyant, light-hearted, and hopeful. On an infinitesimal
capital he had made a tour of many lands, and had written of it for the
Atlantic. In that charmed circle he was as overflowingly happy as if he
had been admitted to the company of the gods. Keeler was affectionately
regarded by all who knew him, and he offered a sort of worship in
return. He often accompanied Mark Twain on his lecture engagements to
the various outlying towns, and Clemens brought him back to his hotel
for breakfast, where they had good, enjoyable talks together. Once
Keeler came eagerly to the hotel and made his way up to Clemens's room.
“Come with me,” he said. “Quick!”
“What is it? What's happened?”
“Don't wait to talk. Come with me.”
They tramped briskly through the streets till they reached the public
library, entered, Keeler leading the way, not stopping till he faced a
row of shelves filled with books. He pointed at one of them, his face
radiant with joy.
“Look,” he said. “Do you see it?”
Clemens looked carefully now and identified one of the books as a
still-born novel which Keeler had published.
“This is a library,” said Keeler, eagerly, “and they've got it!”
His whole being was aglow with the wonder of it. He had been
investigating; the library records showed that in the two years the
book had been there it had been taken out and read three times! It never
occurred to Clemens even to smile. Knowing Mark Twain, one would guess
that his eyes were likely to be filled with tears.
In his book about Mark Twain, Howells tells of a luncheon which Keeler
gave to his more famous associates--Aldrich, Fields, Harte, Clemens, and
Howells himself--a merry informal occasion. Says Howells:
Nothing remains to me of the happy time but a sense of idle and
aimless and joyful talk--play, beginning and ending nowhere, of
eager laughter, of countless good stories from Fields, of a heat-
lightning shimmer of wit from Aldrich, of an occasional
concentration of our joint mockeries upon our host, who took it
gladly; and amid the discourse, so little improving, but so full of
good-fellowship, Bret Harte's leering dramatization of Clemens's
mental attitude toward a symposium of Boston illuminates. “Why,
fellows,” he spluttered, “this is the dream of Mark's life,” and I
remember the glance from under Clemens's feathery eyebrows which
betrayed his enjoyment of the fun.
Very likely Keeler gave that luncheon in celebration of his book's
triumph; it would be like him.
Keeler's end was a mystery. The New York Tribune commissioned him to go
to Cuba to report the facts of some Spanish outrages. He sailed from New
York in the steamer, and was last seen alive the night before the vessel
reached Havana. He had made no secret of his mission, but had discussed
it in his frank, innocent way. There were some Spanish military men on
the ship.
Clemens, commenting on the matter, once said:
“It may be that he was not flung into the sea, still the belief was
general that that was what had happened.”
In his book Howells refers to the doubt with which Mark Twain was then
received by the polite culture of Boston; which, on the other
hand, accepted Bret Harte as one of its own, forgiving even social
shortcomings.
The reason is not difficult to understand. Harte had made his appeal
with legitimate fiction of the kind which, however fresh in flavor and
environment, was of a sort to be measured and classified. Harte spoke a
language they could understand; his humor, his pathos, his point of view
were all recognizable. It was an art already standardized by a master.
It is no reflection on the genius of Bret Harte to liken his splendid
achievements to those of Charles Dickens. Much of Harte's work is in no
way inferior to that of his great English prototype. Dickens never wrote
a better short story than “The Outcasts of Poker Flats.” He never wrote
as good a short story as “The Luck of Roaring Camp.” Boston critics
promptly realized these things and gave Harte his correct rating. That
they failed to do this with Mark Twain, lay chiefly in the fact that he
spoke to them in new and startling tongues. His gospels were likely to
be heresies; his literary eccentricities were all unclassified. Of the
ultrafastidious set Howells tells us that Charles Eliot Norton and Prof.
Francis J. Child were about the only ones who accorded him unqualified
approval. The others smiled and enjoyed him, but with that condescension
which the courtier is likely to accord to motley and the cap and bells.
Only the great, simple-hearted, unbiased multitude, the public, which
had no standards but the direct appeal from one human heart to another,
could recognize immediately his mightier heritage, could exalt and place
him on the throne.