From that night Mark Twain's stay in England could not properly be
called a gloomy one.
Routledge, Hood, Lee, and, in fact, all literary London, set themselves
the task of giving him a good time. Whatever place of interest they
could think of he was taken there; whatever there was to see he saw it.
Dinners, receptions, and assemblies were not complete without him. The
White Friars' Club and others gave banquets in his honor. He was the
sensation of the day. When he rose to speak on these occasions he was
greeted with wild cheers. Whatever he said they eagerly applauded--too
eagerly sometimes, in the fear that they might be regarded as insensible
to American humor. Other speakers delighted in chaffing him in order to
provoke his retorts. When a speaker humorously referred to his American
habit of carrying a cotton umbrella, his reply that he followed this
custom because a cotton umbrella was the only kind of an umbrella
that an Englishman wouldn't steal, was all over England next day, and
regarded as one of the finest examples of wit since the days of Swift.
The suddenness and completeness of his acceptance by the great ones of
London rather overwhelmed and frightened him made him timid. Joaquin
Miller writes:
He was shy as a girl, although time was already coyly flirting white
flowers at his temples, and could hardly be coaxed to meet the
learned and great who wanted to take him by the hand.
Many came to call on him at his hotel, among them Charles Reade and
Canon Kingsley. Kingsley came twice without finding him; then wrote,
asking for an appointment. Reade invited his assistance on a novel.
Indeed, it was in England that Mark Twain was first made to feel that he
had come into his rightful heritage. Whatever may have been the doubts
concerning him in America, there was no question in England. Howells
says:
In England rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him. Lord mayors,
lord chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were his hosts; he
was desired in country houses, and his bold genius captivated the
favor of periodicals which spurned the rest of our nation.
After that first visit of Mark Twain's, when Americans in England,
referring to their great statesmen, authors, and the like, naturally
mentioned the names of Seward, Webster, Lowell, or Holmes, the English
comment was likely to be: “Never mind those. We can turn out academic
Sewards by the dozen, and cultured humorists like Lowell and Holmes by
the score. Tell us of Lincoln, Artemus Ward, and Mark Twain. We cannot
match these; they interest us.” And it was true. History could not match
them, for they were unique.
Clemens would have been more than human if in time he had not realized
the fuller meaning of this triumph, and exulted in it a little to the
folks at home. There never lived a more modest, less pretentious, less
aggressive man than Mark Twain, but there never lived a man who took a
more childlike delight in genuine appreciation; and, being childlike,
it was only human that he should wish those nearest to him to share his
happiness. After one memorable affair he wrote:
I have been received in a sort of tremendous way to-night by the
brains of London, assembled at the annual dinner of the sheriffs of
London; mine being (between you and me) a name which was received
with a thundering outburst of spontaneous applause when the long
list of guests was called.
I might have perished on the spot but for the friendly support and
assistance of my excellent friend, Sir John Bennett.
This letter does not tell all of the incident or the real reason why he
might have perished on the spot. During the long roll-call of guests
he had lost interest a little, and was conversing in whispers with his
“excellent friend,” Sir John Bennett, stopping to applaud now and then
when the applause of the others indicated that some distinguished name
had been pronounced. All at once the applause broke out with great
vehemence. This must be some very distinguished person indeed. He joined
in it with great enthusiasm. When it was over he whispered to Sir John:
“Whose name was that we were just applauding?”
“Mark Twain's.”
Whereupon the support was needed.
Poor little pirate Hotten did not have a happy time during this visit.
He had reveled in the prospect at first, for he anticipated a large
increase to be derived from his purloined property; but suddenly, one
morning, he was aghast to find in the Spectator a signed letter from
Mark Twain, in which he was repudiated, referred to as “John Camden
Hottentot,” an unsavory person generally. Hotten also sent a letter to
the Spectator, in which he attempted to justify himself, but it was
a feeble performance. Clemens prepared two other communications, each
worse than the other and both more destructive than the first one. But
these were only to relieve his mind. He did not print them. In one of
them he pursued the fancy of John Camden Hottentot, whom he offers as a
specimen to the Zoological Gardens.
It is not a bird. It is not a man. It is not a fish. It does not seem to
be in all respects a reptile. It has the body and features of a man, but
scarcely any of the instincts that belong to such a structure.... I am
sure that this singular little creature is the missing link between the
man and the hyena.
Hotten had preyed upon explorer Stanley and libeled him in a so-called.
biography to a degree that had really aroused some feeling against
Stanley in England. Only for the moment--the Queen invited Stanley
to luncheon, and newspaper criticism ceased. Hotten was in general
disrepute, therefore, so it was not worth while throwing a second brick
at him.
In fact, now that Clemens had expended his venom, on paper, Hotten
seemed to him rather an amusing figure than otherwise. An incident grew
out of it all, however, that was not amusing. E. P. Hingston, whom the
reader may remember as having been with Artemus Ward in Virginia City,
and one of that happy group that wined and dined the year away, had
been engaged by Hotten to write the introductory to his edition of
The Innocents Abroad. It was a well-written, highly complimentary
appreciation. Hingston did not dream that he was committing an offense,
nor did Clemens himself regard it as such in the beginning.
But Mark Twain's views had undergone a radical change, and with
characteristic dismissal of previous conditions he had forgotten that
he had ever had any other views than those he now held. Hingston was
in London, and one evening, at a gathering, approached Clemens with
outstretched hand. But Clemens failed to see Hingston's hand or to
recognize him. In after-years his conscience hurt him terribly for this.
He remembered it only with remorse and shame. Once, in his old age, he
spoke of it with deep sorrow.