DEAR LIVY, You observe I still call this beloved old place by the name
it had when I was young. Limerick! It is enough to make a body sick.
The gentlemen-in-waiting stare to see me sit here telegraphing this
letter to you, and no doubt they are smiling in their sleeves. But let
them! The slow old fashions are good enough for me, thank God, and I
will none other. When I see one of these modern fools sit absorbed,
holding the end of a telegraph wire in his hand, and reflect that a
thousand miles away there is another fool hitched to the other end of
it, it makes me frantic with rage; and then am I more implacably fixed
and resolved than ever, to continue taking twenty minutes to telegraph
you what I communicate in ten sends by the new way if I would so debase
myself. And when I see a whole silent, solemn drawing-room full of
idiots sitting with their hands on each other's foreheads “communing,” I
tug the white hairs from my head and curse till my asthma brings me the
blessed relief of suffocation. In our old day such a gathering talked
pure drivel and “rot,” mostly, but better that, a thousand times, than
these dreary conversational funerals that oppress our spirits in this
mad generation.
It is sixty years since I was here before. I walked hither, then, with
my precious old friend. It seems incredible, now, that we did it in two
days, but such is my recollection. I no longer mention that we walked
back in a single day, it makes me so furious to see doubt in the face of
the hearer. Men were men in those old times. Think of one of the puerile
organisms in this effeminate age attempting such a feat.
My air-ship was delayed by a collision with a fellow from China loaded
with the usual cargo of jabbering, copper-colored missionaries, and so I
was nearly an hour on my journey. But by the goodness of God thirteen of
the missionaries were crippled and several killed, so I was content to
lose the time. I love to lose time, anyway, because it brings soothing
reminiscences of the creeping railroad days of old, now lost to us
forever.
Our game was neatly played, and successfully.--None expected us, of
course. You should have seen the guards at the ducal palace stare when I
said, “Announce his grace the Archbishop of Dublin and the Rt. Hon. the
Earl of Hartford.” Arrived within, we were all eyes to see the Duke of
Cambridge and his Duchess, wondering if we might remember their faces,
and they ours. In a moment, they came tottering in; he, bent and
withered and bald; she blooming with wholesome old age. He peered
through his glasses a moment, then screeched in a reedy voice: “Come
to my arms! Away with titles--I'll know ye by no names but Twain and
Twichell! Then fell he on our necks and jammed his trumpet in his ear,
the which we filled with shoutings to this effect: God bless you, old
Howells what is left of you!”
We talked late that night--none of your silent idiot “communings” for
us--of the olden time. We rolled a stream of ancient anecdotes over our
tongues and drank till the lord Archbishop grew so mellow in the mellow
past that Dublin ceased to be Dublin to him and resumed its sweeter
forgotten name of New York. In truth he almost got back into his ancient
religion, too, good Jesuit, as he has always been since O'Mulligan the
First established that faith in the Empire.
And we canvassed everybody. Bailey Aldrich, Marquis of Ponkapog, came
in, got nobly drunk, and told us all about how poor Osgood lost his
earldom and was hanged for conspiring against the second Emperor--but
he didn't mention how near he himself came to being hanged, too, for
engaging in the same enterprise. He was as chaffy as he was sixty years
ago, too, and swore the Archbishop and I never walked to Boston--but
there was never a day that Ponkapog wouldn't lie, so be it by the grace
of God he got the opportunity.
The Lord High Admiral came in, a hale gentleman close upon seventy
and bronzed by the suns and storms of many climes and scarred with the
wounds got in many battles, and I told him how I had seen him sit in a
high chair and eat fruit and cakes and answer to the name of Johnny. His
granddaughter (the eldest) is but lately warned to the youngest of the
Grand Dukes, and so who knows but a day may come when the blood of the
Howells's may reign in the land? I must not forget to say, while I think
of it, that your new false teeth are done, my dear, and your wig. Keep
your head well bundled with a shawl till the latter comes, and so cheat
your persecuting neuralgias and rheumatisms. Would you believe it?--the
Duchess of Cambridge is deafer than you--deafer than her husband. They
call her to breakfast with a salvo of artillery; and usually when it
thunders she looks up expectantly and says “come in.....”
The monument to the author of “Gloverson and His Silent partners” is
finished. It is the stateliest and the costliest ever erected to the
memory of any man. This noble classic has now been translated into all
the languages of the earth and is adored by all nations and known to all
creatures. Yet I have conversed as familiarly with the author of it as I
do with my own great-grandchildren.
I wish you could see old Cambridge and Ponkapog. I love them as dearly
as ever, but privately, my dear, they are not much improvement on
idiots. It is melancholy to hear them jabber over the same pointless
anecdotes three and four times of an evening, forgetting that they had
jabbered them over three or four times the evening before. Ponkapog
still writes poetry, but the old-time fire has mostly gone out of it.
Perhaps his best effort of late years is this:
“O soul, soul, soul of mine:
Soul, soul, soul of thine!
Thy soul, my soul, two souls entwine,
And sing thy lauds in crystal wine!”
This he goes about repeating to everybody, daily and nightly, insomuch
that he is become a sore affliction to all that know him.
But I must desist. There are drafts here, everywhere and my gout is
something frightful. My left foot hath resemblance to a snuff-bladder.
God be with you.
HARTFORD.
These to Lady Hartford, in the earldom of Hartford, in the upper portion
of the city of Dublin.
One may imagine the joy of Howells and the others in this ludicrous
extravaganza, which could have been written by no one but Mark
Twain. It will hardly take rank as prophecy, though certainly true
forecast in it is not wholly lacking.
Clemens was now pretty well satisfied with his piloting story, but
he began to have doubts as to its title, “Old Times on the
Mississippi.” It seemed to commit him to too large an undertaking.
*****
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
Dec. 3, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--Let us change the heading to “Piloting on the Miss
in the Old Times”--or to “Steamboating on the M. in Old Times”--or to
“Personal Old Times on the Miss.”--We could change it for Feb. if now
too late for Jan.--I suggest it because the present heading is too
pretentious, too broad and general. It seems to command me to deliver a
Second Book of Revelation to the world, and cover all the Old Times the
Mississippi (dang that word, it is worse than “type” or “Egypt “) ever
saw--whereas here I have finished Article No. III and am about to start
on No. 4. and yet I have spoken of nothing but of Piloting as a science
so far; and I doubt if I ever get beyond that portion of my subject. And
I don't care to. Any muggins can write about Old Times on the Miss. of
500 different kinds, but I am the only man alive that can scribble about
the piloting of that day--and no man ever has tried to scribble about it
yet. Its newness pleases me all the time--and it is about the only new
subject I know of. If I were to write fifty articles they would all be
about pilots and piloting--therefore let's get the word Piloting into
the heading. There's a sort of freshness about that, too.
Ys ever,
MARK.
But Howells thought the title satisfactory, and indeed it was the
best that could have been selected for the series. He wrote every
few days of his delight in the papers, and cautioned the author not
to make an attempt to please any “supposed Atlantic audience,”
adding, “Yarn it off into my sympathetic ear.” Clemens replied:
*****
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
H't'f'd. Dec. 8, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--It isn't the Atlantic audience that distresses me; for
it is the only audience that I sit down before in perfect serenity (for
the simple reason that it doesn't require a “humorist” to paint himself
striped and stand on his head every fifteen minutes.) The trouble was,
that I was only bent on “working up an atmosphere” and that is to me a
most fidgety and irksome thing, sometimes. I avoid it, usually, but
in this case it was absolutely necessary, else every reader would be
applying the atmosphere of his own or sea experiences, and that shirt
wouldn't fit, you know.
I could have sent this Article II a week ago, or more, but I couldn't
bring myself to the drudgery of revising and correcting it. I have been
at that tedious work 3 hours, now, and by George but I am glad it is
over.
Say--I am as prompt as a clock, if I only know the day a thing is
wanted--otherwise I am a natural procrastinaturalist. Tell me what day
and date you want Nos. 3 and 4, and I will tackle and revise them and
they'll be there to the minute.
I could wind up with No. 4., but there are some things more which I am
powerfully moved to write. Which is natural enough, since I am a person
who would quit authorizing in a minute to go to piloting, if the madam
would stand it. I would rather sink a steamboat than eat, any time.
My wife was afraid to write you--so I said with simplicity, “I will give
you the language--and ideas.” Through the infinite grace of God there
has not been such another insurrection in the family before as followed
this. However, the letter was written, and promptly, too--whereas,
heretofore she has remained afraid to do such things.
With kind regards to Mrs. Howells,
Yrs ever,
MARK.
The “Old Times” papers appeared each month in the Atlantic until
July, 1875, and take rank to-day with Mark Twain's best work. When
the first number appeared, John Hay wrote: “It is perfect; no more
nor less. I don't see how you do it.” Which was reported to
Howells, who said: “What business has Hay, I should like to know,
praising a favorite of mine? It's interfering.”
These were the days when the typewriter was new. Clemens and
Twichell, during their stay in Boston, had seen the marvel in
operation, and Clemens had been unable to resist owning one. It was
far from being the perfect machine of to-day; the letters were all
capitals, and one was never quite certain, even of those. Mark
Twain, however, began with enthusiasm and practised faithfully. On
the day of its arrival he wrote two letters that have survived, the
first to his brother, the other to Howells.
*****
Typewritten letter to W. D. Howells, in Boston:
HARTFORD, Dec. 9, 1874.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want to add a short paragraph to article No. 1, when
the proof comes. Merely a line or two, however.
I don't know whether I am going to make this typewriting machine go or
nto: that last word was intended for n-not; but I guess I shall
make some sort of a succss of it before I run it very long. I am so
thick-fingered that I miss the keys.
You needn't a swer this; I am only practicing to get three; another
slip-up there; only practici?ng to get the hang of the thing. I notice
I miss fire & get in a good many unnecessary letters and punctuation
marks. I am simply using you for a target to bang at. Blame my cats but
this thing requires genius in order to work it just right.
Yours ever,
(M)ARK.
Knowing Mark Twain, Howells wrote: “When you get tired of the
machine send it to me.” Clemens naturally did get tired of the
machine; it was ruining his morals, he said. He presently offered
it to Howells, who by this time hesitated, but eventually yielded
and accepted it. If he was blasted by its influence the fact has
not been recorded.
One of the famous Atlantic dinners came along in December. “Don't
you dare to refuse that invitation,” wrote Howells, “to meet
Emerson, Aldrich, and all those boys at the Parker House, at six
o'clock, Tuesday, December 15th. Come!”
Clemens had no desire to refuse; he sent word that he would come,
and followed it with a characteristic line.
*****
To W. D. Howells, in Boston:
HARTFORD, Sunday.
MY DEAR HOWELLS,--I want you to ask Mrs. Howells to let you stay all
night at the Parker House and tell lies and have an improving time, and
take breakfast with me in the morning. I will have a good room for you,
and a fire. Can't you tell her it always makes you sick to go home
late at night, or something like that? That sort of thing rouses Mrs.
Clemens's sympathies, easily; the only trouble is to keep them up.
Twichell and I talked till 2 or 3 in the morning, the night we supped at
your house and it restored his health, on account of his being drooping
for some time and made him much more robuster than what he was before.
Will Mrs. Howells let you?
Yrs ever,
S. L. C.
Aldrich had issued that year a volume of poems, and he presented
Clemens with a copy of it during this Boston visit. The letter of
appreciation which follows contains also reference to an amusing
incident; but we shall come to that presently.
*****
To T. B. Aldrich, in Ponkapog, Mass.