DEAR MR. ALDRICH,--No indeed, don't take back the apology! Hang it,
I don't want to abuse a man's civility merely because he gives me the
chance.
I hear a good deal about doing things on the “spur of the moment”--I
invariably regret the things I do on the spur of the moment. That
disclaimer of mine was a case in point. I am ashamed every time I think
of my bursting out before an unconcerned public with that bombastic
pow-wow about burning publishers' letters, and all that sort of
imbecility, and about my not being an imitator, etc. Who would find out
that I am a natural fool if I kept always cool and never let nature come
to the surface? Nobody.
But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and
trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward
utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters
that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very
decentest people in the land--and this grateful remembrance of mine
ought to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a
year ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.
Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners
of one's memory, now and then, without warning. Just at this moment a
picture flits before me: Scene--private room in Barnum's Restaurant,
Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T. Goodman, (editor
and proprietor Daily “Enterprise”), and “Dan de Quille” and myself,
reporters for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such
tautology and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to
be offensive to the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly
reciting a poem about a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting
himself and being interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table
and shouts of “Splendid, by Shorzhe!” Finally, a long, vociferous,
poundiferous and vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion,
and then Artemus: “Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates
a poet 'at loves his fellow man, stan' up!--Stan' up and drink health
and long life to Thomas Bailey Aldrich!--and drink it stanning!” (On all
hands fervent, enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.)
Then Artemus: “Well--consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!”
Which was done.
You must excuse all this stuff from a stranger, for the present, and
when I see you I will apologize in full.
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 for the cover of the Overland, a grizzly bear (of the arms of
the State of California) was chosen. Nahl Bras. carved him and the page
was printed, with him in it, looking thus: [Rude sketch of a grizzly
bear.]
As a bear, he was a success--he was a good bear--. But then, it was
objected, that he was an objectless bear--a bear that meant nothing in
particular, 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 paint to him. But presently Harte
took a pencil and drew these 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!: [Sketch of a small section of railway
track.]