But if Mark Twain could find nothing to write of in England, he found no
lack of material in America. That winter in Hartford, with Charles
Dudley Warner, he wrote "The Gilded Age." The Warners were neighbors,
and the families visited back and forth. One night at dinner, when the
two husbands were criticizing the novels their wives were reading, the
wives suggested that their author husbands write a better one. The
challenge was accepted. On the spur of the moment Warner and Clemens
agreed that they would write a book together, and began it immediately.
Clemens had an idea already in mind. It was to build a romance around
that lovable dreamer, his mother's cousin, James Lampton, whom the reader
will recall from an earlier chapter. Without delay he set to work and
soon completed the first three hundred and ninety-nine pages of the new
story. Warner came over and, after listening to its reading, went home
and took up the story. In two months the novel was complete, Warner
doing most of the romance, Mark Twain the character parts. Warner's
portion was probably pure fiction, but Mark Twain's chapters were full of
history.
Judge Hawkins and wife were Mark Twain's father and mother; Washington
Hawkins, his brother Orion. Their doings, with those of James Lampton as
Colonel Sellers, were, of course, elaborated, but the story of the
Tennessee land, as told in that book, is very good history indeed. Laura
Hawkins, however, was only real in the fact that she bore the name of
Samuel Clemens's old playmate. "The Gilded Age," published later in the
year, was well received and sold largely. The character of Colonel
Sellers at once took a place among the great fiction characters of the
world, and is probably the best known of any American creation. His
watchword, "There's millions in it!" became a byword.
The Clemenses decided to build in Hartford. They bought a plot of land
on Farmington Avenue, in the literary neighborhood, and engaged an
architect and builder. By spring, the new house was well under way, and,
matters progressing so favorably, the owners decided to take a holiday
while the work was going on. Clemens had been eager to show England to
his wife; so, taking little Sissy, now a year old, they sailed in May, to
be gone half a year.
They remained for a time in London--a period of honors and entertainment.
If Mark Twain had been a lion on his first visit, he was hardly less than
royalty now. His rooms at the Langham Hotel were like a court. The
nation's most distinguished men--among them Robert Browning, Sir John
Millais, Lord Houghton, and Sir Charles Dilke--came to pay their
respects. Authors were calling constantly. Charles Reade and Wilkie
Collins could not get enough of Mark Twain. Reade proposed to join with
him in writing a novel, as Warner had done. Lewis Carroll did not call,
being too timid, but they met the author of "Alice in Wonderland" one
night at a dinner, "the shyest full-grown man, except Uncle Remiss, I
ever saw," Mark Twain once declared.
Little Sissy and her father thrived on London life, but it wore on Mrs.
Clemens. At the end of July they went quietly to Edinburgh, and settled
at Veitch's Hotel, on George Street. The strain of London life had been
too much for Mrs. Clemens, and her health became poor. Unacquainted in
Edinburgh, Clemens only remembered that Dr. John Brown, author of "Rab
and His Friends," lived there. Learning the address, he walked around to
23 Rutland Street, and made himself known. Doctor Brown came forthwith,
and Mrs. Clemens seemed better from the moment of his arrival.
The acquaintance did not end there. For a month the author of "Rab" and
the little Clemens family were together daily. Often they went with him
to make his round of visits. He was always leaning out of the carriage
to look at dogs. It was told of him that once when he suddenly put his
head from a carriage window he dropped back with a disappointed look.
"Who was it?" asked his companion. "Some one you know?"
"No, a dog I don't know."
Dr. John was beloved by everybody in Scotland, and his story of "Rab" had
won him a world-wide following. Children adored him. Little Susy and he
were playmates, and he named her "Megalopis," a Greek term, suggested by
her great, dark eyes.
Mark Twain kept his promise to lecture to a London audience. On the 13th
of October, in the Queen's Concert Rooms, Hanover Square, he gave "Our
Fellow Savages of the Sandwich Islands." The house was packed. Clemens
was not introduced. He appeared on the platform in evening dress,
assuming the character of a manager, announcing a disappointment. Mr.
Clemens, he said, had fully expected to be present. He paused, and loud
murmurs arose from the audience. He lifted his hand and the noise
subsided. Then he added, "I am happy to say that Mark Twain is present
and will now give his lecture." The audience roared its approval.
He continued his lectures at Hanover Square through the week, and at no
time in his own country had he won such a complete triumph. He was the
talk of the streets. The papers were full of him. The "London Times"
declared his lectures had only whetted the public appetite for more. His
manager, George Dolby (formerly manager for Charles Dickens), urged him
to remain and continue the course through the winter. Clemens finally
agreed that he would take his family back to America and come back
himself within the month. This plan he carried out. Returning to
London, he lectured steadily for two months in the big Hanover Square
rooms, giving his "Roughing It" address, and it was only toward the end
that his audience showed any sign of diminishing. There is probably no
other such a lecture triumph on record.
Mark Twain was at the pinnacle of his first glory: thirty-six, in full
health, prosperous, sought by the world's greatest, hailed in the highest
places almost as a king. Tom Sawyer's dreams of greatness had been all
too modest. In its most dazzling moments his imagination had never led
him so far.