MARK TWAIN A BIOGRAPHY

THE PERSONAL AND LITERARY LIFE OF SAMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS

BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

VOLUME I, Part 1: 1835-1866

TOCLARA CLEMENS GABRILOWITSCH WHO STEADILY UPHELD THEAUTHOR'S PURPOSE TO WRITE HISTORY RATHER THAN EULOGY ASTHE STORY OF HER FATHER'S LIFE

AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Dear William Dean Howells, Joseph Hopkins Twichell, Joseph T. Goodman, and other old friends of Mark Twain:

I cannot let these volumes go to press without some grateful word to youwho have helped me during the six years and more that have gone to theirmaking. 

First, I want to confess how I have envied you your association with MarkTwain in those days when you and he "went gipsying, a long time ago. "Next, I want to express my wonder at your willingness to give me sounstintedly from your precious letters and memories, when it is in thenature of man to hoard such treasures, for himself and for those whofollow him. And, lastly, I want to tell you that I do not envy you somuch, any more, for in these chapters, one after another, through yourgrace, I have gone gipsying with you all. Neither do I wonder now, for Ihave come to know that out of your love for him grew that greaterunselfishness (or divine selfishness, as he himself might have termedit), and that nothing short of the fullest you could do for his memorywould have contented your hearts. 

My gratitude is measureless; and it is world-wide, for there is no landso distant that it does not contain some one who has eagerly contributedto the story. Only, I seem so poorly able to put my thanks into words. 

Albert Bigelow Paine. 

 PREFATORY NOTE

Certain happenings as recorded in this work will be found to differmaterially from the same incidents and episodes as set down in thewritings of Mr. Clemens himself. Mark Twain's spirit was built of thevery fabric of truth, so far as moral intent was concerned, but in hisearlier autobiographical writings--and most of his earlier writings wereautobiographical--he made no real pretense to accuracy of time, place, orcircumstance--seeking, as he said, "only to tell a good story"--while inlater years an ever-vivid imagination and a capricious memory madehistory difficult, even when, as in his so-called "Autobiography, " hiseffort was in the direction of fact. 

"When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened ornot, " he once said, quaintly, "but I am getting old, and soon I shallremember only the latter. "

The reader may be assured, where discrepancies occur, that the writer ofthis memoir has obtained his data from direct and positive sources:letters, diaries, account-books, or other immediate memoranda; also fromthe concurring testimony of eye-witnesses, supported by a unity ofcircumstance and conditions, and not from hearsay or vagrant printeditems. 

 MARK TWAIN

 A BIOGRAPHYI

ANCESTORS

On page 492 of the old volume of Suetonius, which Mark Twain read untilhis very last day, there is a reference to one Flavius Clemens, a man ofwide repute "for his want of energy, " and in a marginal note he haswritten:

"I guess this is where our line starts. "

It was like him to write that. It spoke in his whimsical fashion theattitude of humility, the ready acknowledgment of shortcoming, which washis chief characteristic and made him lovable--in his personality and inhis work. 

Historically, we need not accept this identity of the Clemens ancestry. The name itself has a kindly meaning, and was not an uncommon one inRome. There was an early pope by that name, and it appears now and againin the annals of the Middle Ages. More lately there was a GregoryClemens, an English landowner who became a member of Parliament underCromwell and signed the death-warrant of Charles I. Afterward he wastried as a regicide, his estates were confiscated, and his head wasexposed on a pole on the top of Westminster Hall. 

Tradition says that the family of Gregory Clemens did not remain inEngland, but emigrated to Virginia (or New Jersey), and from them, indirect line, descended the Virginia Clemenses, including John MarshallClemens, the father of Mark Twain. Perhaps the line could be traced, andits various steps identified, but, after all, an ancestor more or lessneed not matter when it is the story of a descendant that is to bewritten. 

Of Mark Twain's immediate forebears, however, there is something to besaid. His paternal grandfather, whose name also was Samuel, was a man ofculture and literary taste. In 1797 he married a Virginia girl, PamelaGoggin; and of their five children John Marshall Clemens, born August 11, 1798, was the eldest--becoming male head of the family at the age ofseven, when his father was accidentally killed at a house-raising. Thefamily was not a poor one, but the boy grew up with a taste for work. Asa youth he became a clerk in an iron manufactory, at Lynchburg, anddoubtless studied at night. At all events, he acquired an education, butinjured his health in the mean time, and somewhat later, with his motherand the younger children, removed to Adair County, Kentucky, where thewidow presently married a sweetheart of her girlhood, one Simon Hancock, a good man. In due course, John Clemens was sent to Columbia, thecountyseat, to study law. When the living heirs became of age headministered his father's estate, receiving as his own share three negroslaves; also a mahogany sideboard, which remains among the Clemenseffects to this day. 

This was in 1821. John Clemens was now a young man of twenty-three, never very robust, but with a good profession, plenty of resolution, anda heart full of hope and dreams. Sober, industrious, and unswervinglyupright, it seemed certain that he must make his mark. That he waslikely to be somewhat too optimistic, even visionary, was not thenregarded as a misfortune. 

It was two years later that he met Jane Lampton; whose mother was a Casey--a Montgomery-Casey whose father was of the Lamptons (Lambtons) ofDurham, England, and who on her own account was reputed to be thehandsomest girl and the wittiest, as well as the best dancer, in allKentucky. The Montgomeries and the Caseys of Kentucky had been Indianfighters in the Daniel Boone period, and grandmother Casey, who had beenJane Montgomery, had worn moccasins in her girlhood, and once saved herlife by jumping a fence and out-running a redskin pursuer. TheMontgomery and Casey annals were full of blood-curdling adventures, andthere is to-day a Casey County next to Adair, with a Montgomery Countysomewhat farther east. As for the Lamptons, there is an earldom in theEnglish family, and there were claimants even then in the Americanbranch. All these things were worth while in Kentucky, but it was rareJane Lampton herself--gay, buoyant, celebrated for her beauty and hergrace; able to dance all night, and all day too, for that matter--thatwon the heart of John Marshall Clemens, swept him off his feet almost atthe moment of their meeting. Many of the characteristics that made MarkTwain famous were inherited from his mother. His sense of humor, hisprompt, quaintly spoken philosophy, these were distinctly hercontribution to his fame. Speaking of her in a later day, he once said:

"She had a sort of ability which is rare in man and hardly existent inwoman--the ability to say a humorous thing with the perfect air of notknowing it to be humorous. "

She bequeathed him this, without doubt; also her delicate complexion; herwonderful wealth of hair; her small, shapely hands and feet, and thepleasant drawling speech which gave her wit, and his, a serene andperfect setting. 

It was a one-sided love affair, the brief courtship of Jane Lampton andJohn Marshall Clemens. All her life, Jane Clemens honored her husband, and while he lived served him loyally; but the choice of her heart hadbeen a young physician of Lexington with whom she had quarreled, and herprompt engagement with John Clemens was a matter of temper rather thantenderness. She stipulated that the wedding take place at once, and onMay 6, 1823, they were married. She was then twenty; her husbandtwenty-five. More than sixty years later, when John Clemens had longbeen dead, she took a railway journey to a city where there was an OldSettlers' Convention, because among the names of those attending she hadnoticed the name of the lover of her youth. She meant to humble herselfto him and ask forgiveness after all the years. She arrived too late;the convention was over, and he was gone. Mark Twain once spoke of this, and added:

"It is as pathetic a romance as any that has crossed the field of mypersonal experience in a long lifetime. "

II

THE FORTUNES OF JOHN AND JANE CLEMENS

With all his ability and industry, and with the-best of intentions, JohnClemens would seem to have had an unerring faculty for making businessmistakes. It was his optimistic outlook, no doubt--his absoluteconfidence in the prosperity that lay just ahead--which led him from oneunfortunate locality or enterprise to another, as long as he lived. Abouta year after his marriage he settled with his young wife in Gainsborough, Tennessee, a mountain town on the Cumberland River, and here, in 1825, their first child, a boy, was born. They named him Orion--after theconstellation, perhaps--though they changed the accent to the firstsyllable, calling it Orion. Gainsborough was a small place with fewenough law cases; but it could hardly have been as small, or furnished asfew cases; as the next one selected, which was Jamestown, FentressCounty, still farther toward the Eastward Mountains. Yet Jamestown hadthe advantage of being brand new, and in the eye of his fancy JohnClemens doubtless saw it the future metropolis of east Tennessee, withhimself its foremost jurist and citizen. He took an immediate and activeinterest in the development of the place, established the county-seatthere, built the first Court House, and was promptly elected as circuitclerk of the court. 

It was then that he decided to lay the foundation of a fortune forhimself and his children by acquiring Fentress County land. Grants couldbe obtained in those days at the expense of less than a cent an acre, andJohn Clemens believed that the years lay not far distant when the landwould increase in value ten thousand, twenty, perhaps even a hundredthousandfold. There was no wrong estimate in that. Land covered withthe finest primeval timber, and filled with precious minerals, couldhardly fail to become worth millions, even though his entire purchase of75, 000 acres probably did not cost him more than $500. The great tractlay about twenty nines to the southward of Jamestown. Standing in thedoor of the Court House he had built, looking out over the "Knob" of theCumberland Mountains toward his vast possessions, he said:

"Whatever befalls me now, my heirs are secure. I may not live to seethese acres turn into silver and gold, but my children will. "

Such was the creation of that mirage of wealth, the "Tennessee land, "which all his days and for long afterward would lie just ahead--a goldenvision, its name the single watchword of the family fortunes--the dreamfading with years, only materializing at last as a theme in a story ofphantom riches, The Gilded Age. 

Yet for once John Clemens saw clearly, and if his dream did not come truehe was in no wise to blame. The land is priceless now, and a corporationof the Clemens heirs is to-day contesting the title of a thin fragment ofit--about one thousand acres--overlooked in some survey. 

Believing the future provided for, Clemens turned his attention topresent needs. He built himself a house, unusual in its style andelegance. It had two windows in each room, and its walls were coveredwith plastering, something which no one in Jamestown had ever seenbefore. He was regarded as an aristocrat. He wore a swallow-tail coatof fine blue jeans, instead of the coarse brown native-made cloth. Theblue-jeans coat was ornamented with brass buttons and cost one dollar andtwenty-five cents a yard, a high price for that locality and time. Hiswife wore a calico dress for company, while the neighbor wives worehomespun linsey-woolsey. The new house was referred to as the CrystalPalace. When John and Jane Clemens attended balls--there were continuousballs during the holidays--they were considered the most gracefuldancers. 

Jamestown did not become the metropolis he had dreamed. It attainedalmost immediately to a growth of twenty-five houses--mainly log houses--and stopped there. The country, too, was sparsely settled; lawpractice was slender and unprofitable, the circuit-riding from court tocourt was very bad for one of his physique. John Clemens saw his reserveof health and funds dwindling, and decided to embark in merchandise. Hebuilt himself a store and put in a small country stock of goods. Thesehe exchanged for ginseng, chestnuts, lampblack, turpentine, rosin, andother produce of the country, which he took to Louisville every springand fall in six-horse wagons. In the mean time he would seem to havesold one or more of his slaves, doubtless to provide capital. There wasa second baby now--a little girl, Pamela, --born in September, 1827. Three years later, May 1830, another little girl, Margaret, came. Bythis time the store and home were in one building, the store occupyingone room, the household requiring two--clearly the family fortunes weredeclining. 

About a year after little Margaret was born, John Clemens gave upJamestown and moved his family and stock of goods to a point nine milesdistant, known as the Three Forks of Wolf. The Tennessee land was safe, of course, and would be worth millions some day, but in the mean time thestruggle for daily substance was becoming hard. 

He could not have remained at the Three Forks long, for in 1832 we findhim at still another place, on the right bank of Wolf River, where apost-office called Pall Mall was established, with John Clemens aspostmaster, usually addressed as "Squire" or "Judge. " A store was run inconnection with the postoffice. At Pall Mall, in June, 1832, anotherboy, Benjamin, was born. 

The family at this time occupied a log house built by John Clemenshimself, the store being kept in another log house on the opposite bankof the river. He no longer practised law. In The Gilded Age we haveMark Twain's picture of Squire Hawkins and Obedstown, written fromdescriptions supplied in later years by his mother and his brother Orion;and, while not exact in detail, it is not regarded as an exaggeratedpresentation of east Tennessee conditions at that time. The chapter istoo long and too depressing to be set down here. The reader may look itup for himself, if he chooses. If he does he will not wonder that JaneClemens's handsome features had become somewhat sharper, and her manner ashade graver, with the years and burdens of marriage, or that JohnClemens at thirty-six-out of health, out of tune with his environment--was rapidly getting out of heart. After all the bright promise of thebeginning, things had somehow gone wrong, and hope seemed dwindling away. 

A tall man, he had become thin and unusually pale; he looked older thanhis years. Every spring he was prostrated with what was called"sunpain, " an acute form of headache, nerve-racking and destroying to allpersistent effort. Yet he did not retreat from his moral andintellectual standards, or lose the respect of that shiftless community. He was never intimidated by the rougher element, and his eyes were of akind that would disconcert nine men out of ten. Gray and deep-set underbushy brows, they literally looked you through. Absolutely fearless, hepermitted none to trample on his rights. It is told of John Clemens, atJamestown, that once when he had lost a cow he handed the minister onSunday morning a notice of the loss to be read from the pulpit, accordingto the custom of that community. For some reason, the minister put thedocument aside and neglected it. At the close of the service Clemensrose and, going to the pulpit, read his announcement himself to thecongregation. Those who knew Mark Twain best will not fail to recall inhim certain of his father's legacies. 

The arrival of a letter from "Colonel Sellers" inviting the Hawkinsfamily to come to Missouri is told in The Gilded Age. In reality theletter was from John Quarles, who had married Jane Clemens's sister, Patsey Lampton, and settled in Florida, Monroe County, Missouri. It wasa momentous letter in The Gilded Age, and no less so in reality, for itshifted the entire scene of the Clemens family fortunes, and it had to dowith the birthplace and the shaping of the career of one whose memory islikely to last as long as American history. 

III

A HUMBLE BIRTHPLACE

Florida, Missouri, was a small village in the early thirties--smallerthan it is now, perhaps, though in that day it had more promise, even ifless celebrity. The West was unassembled then, undigested, comparativelyunknown. Two States, Louisiana and Missouri, with less than half amillion white persons, were all that lay beyond the great river. St. Louis, with its boasted ten thousand inhabitants and its river trade withthe South, was the single metropolis in all that vast uncharted region. There was no telegraph; there were no railroads, no stage lines of anyconsequence--scarcely any maps. For all that one could see or guess, oneplace was as promising as another, especially a settlement like Florida, located at the forks of a pretty stream, Salt River, which those earlysettlers believed might one day become navigable and carry themerchandise of that region down to the mighty Mississippi, thence to theworld outside. 

In those days came John A. Quarles, of Kentucky, with his wife, who hadbeen Patsey Ann Lampton; also, later, Benjamin Lampton, her father, andothers of the Lampton race. It was natural that they should want JaneClemens and her husband to give up that disheartening east Tennesseeventure and join them in this new and promising land. It was natural, too, for John Quarles--happy-hearted, generous, and optimistic--to writethe letter. There were only twenty-one houses in Florida, but Quarlescounted stables, out-buildings--everything with a roof on it--and setdown the number at fifty-four. 

Florida, with its iridescent promise and negligible future, was just thekind of a place that John Clemens with unerring instinct would be certainto select, and the Quarles letter could have but one answer. Yet therewould be the longing for companionship, too, and Jane Clemens must havehungered for her people. In The Gilded Age, the Sellers letter ends:

"Come!--rush!--hurry!--don't wait for anything!"

The Clemens family began immediately its preparation for getting away. The store was sold, and the farm; the last two wagon-loads of producewere sent to Louisville; and with the aid of the money realized, a fewhundred dollars, John Clemens and his family "flitted out into the greatmysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee. " They had atwo-horse barouche, which would seem to have been preserved out of theirearlier fortunes. The barouche held the parents and the three youngerchildren, Pamela, Margaret, anal the little boy, Benjamin. There werealso two extra horses, which Orion, now ten, and Jennie, the house-girl, a slave, rode. This was early in the spring of 1835. 

They traveled by the way of their old home at Columbia, and paid a visitto relatives. At Louisville they embarked on a steamer bound for St. Louis; thence overland once more through wilderness and solitude intowhat was then the Far West, the promised land. 

They arrived one evening, and if Florida was not quite all in appearancethat John Clemens had dreamed, it was at least a haven--with JohnQuarles, jovial, hospitable, and full of plans. The great Mississippiwas less than fifty miles away. Salt River, with a system of locks anddams, would certainly become navigable to the Forks, with Florida as itshead of navigation. It was a Sellers fancy, though perhaps it should besaid here that John Quarles was not the chief original of that lovelycharacter in The Gilded Age. That was another relative--James Lampton, acousin--quite as lovable, and a builder of even more insubstantialdreams. 

John Quarles was already established in merchandise in Florida, and wasprospering in a small way. He had also acquired a good farm, which heworked with thirty slaves, and was probably the rich man and leadingcitizen of the community. He offered John Clemens a partnership in hisstore, and agreed to aid him in the selection of some land. Furthermore, he encouraged him to renew his practice of the law. Thus far, at least, the Florida venture was not a mistake, for, whatever came, matters couldnot be worse than they had been in Tennessee. 

In a small frame building near the center of the village, John and JaneClemens established their household. It was a humble one-story affair, with two main rooms and a lean-to kitchen, though comfortable enough forits size, and comparatively new. It is still standing and occupied whenthese lines are written, and it should be preserved and guarded as ashrine for the American people; for it was here that the foremostAmerican-born author--the man most characteristically American in everythought and word and action of his life--drew his first flutteringbreath, caught blinkingly the light of a world that in the years to comewould rise up and in its wide realm of letters hail him as a king. 

It was on a bleak day, November 30, 1835, that he entered feebly thedomain he was to conquer. Long, afterward, one of those who knew himbest said:

"He always seemed to me like some great being from another planet--neverquite of this race or kind. "

He may have been, for a great comet was in the sky that year, and itwould return no more until the day when he should be borne back into thefar spaces of silence and undiscovered suns. But nobody thought of this, then. 

He was a seven-months child, and there was no fanfare of welcome at hiscoming. Perhaps it was even suggested that, in a house so small and sosufficiently filled, there was no real need of his coming at all. OnePolly Ann Buchanan, who is said to have put the first garment of any sorton him, lived to boast of the fact, --[This honor has been claimed alsofor Mrs. Millie Upton and a Mrs. Damrell. Probably all were present andassisted. ]--but she had no particular pride in that matter then. It wasonly a puny baby with a wavering promise of life. Still, John Clemensmust have regarded with favor this first gift of fortune in a new land, for he named the little boy Samuel, after his father, and added the nameof an old and dear Virginia friend, Langhorne. The family fortunes wouldseem to have been improving at this time, and he may have regarded thearrival of another son as a good omen. 

With a family of eight, now, including Jennie, the slavegirl, more roomwas badly needed, and he began building without delay. The result wasnot a mansion, by any means, being still of the one-story pattern, but itwas more commodious than the tiny two-room affair. The rooms werelarger, and there was at least one ell, or extension, for kitchen anddining-room uses. This house, completed in 1836, occupied by the Clemensfamily during the remainder of the years spent in Florida, was often inlater days pointed out as Mark Twain's birthplace. It missed thatdistinction by a few months, though its honor was sufficient in havingsheltered his early childhood. --[This house is no longer standing. Whenit was torn down several years ago, portions of it were carried off andmanufactured into souvenirs. Mark Twain himself disclaimed it as hisbirthplace, and once wrote on a photograph of it: "No, it is too stylish, it is not my birthplace. "]

IV

BEGINNING A LONG JOURNEY

It was not a robust childhood. The new baby managed to go through thewinter--a matter of comment among the family and neighbors. Addedstrength came, but slowly; "Little Sam, " as they called him, was alwaysdelicate during those early years. 

It was a curious childhood, full of weird, fantastic impressions andcontradictory influences, stimulating alike to the imagination and thatembryo philosophy of life which begins almost with infancy. John Clemensseldom devoted any time to the company of his children. He looked aftertheir comfort and mental development as well as he could, and gave adviceon occasion. He bought a book now and then--sometimes a picture-book--and subscribed for Peter Parley's Magazine, a marvel of delight to theolder children, but he did not join in their amusements, and he rarely, or never, laughed. Mark Twain did not remember ever having seen or heardhis father laugh. The problem of supplying food was a somber one to JohnClemens; also, he was working on a perpetual-motion machine at thisperiod, which absorbed his spare time, and, to the inventor at least, wasnot a mirthful occupation. Jane Clemens was busy, too. Her sense ofhumor did not die, but with added cares and years her temper as well asher features became sharper, and it was just as well to be fairly out ofrange when she was busy with her employments. 

Little Sam's companions were his brothers and sisters, all older thanhimself: Orion, ten years his senior, followed by Pamela and Margaret atintervals of two and three years, then by Benjamin, a kindly little ladwhose gentle life was chiefly devoted to looking after the baby brother, three years his junior. But in addition to these associations, therewere the still more potent influences Of that day and section, theintimate, enveloping institution of slavery, the daily companionship ofthe slaves. All the children of that time were fond of the negroes andconfided in them. They would, in fact, have been lost without suchprotection and company. 

It was Jennie, the house-girl, and Uncle Ned, a man of all work--apparently acquired with the improved prospects--who were in realcharge of the children and supplied them with entertainment. Wonderfulentertainment it was. That was a time of visions and dreams, small. Gossip and superstitions. Old tales were repeated over and over, withadornments and improvements suggested by immediate events. At eveningthe Clemens children, big and little, gathered about the great openfireplace while Jennie and Uncle Ned told tales and hair-lifting legends. Even a baby of two or three years could follow the drift of thisprimitive telling and would shiver and cling close with the horror anddelight of its curdling thrill. The tales always began with "Once 'pon atime, " and one of them was the story of the "Golden Arm" which thesmallest listener would one day repeat more elaborately to wideraudiences in many lands. Briefly it ran as follows:

"Once 'Pon a time there was a man, and he had a wife, and she had a' armof pure gold; and she died, and they buried her in the graveyard; and onenight her husband went and dug her up and cut off her golden arm and tuckit home; and one night a ghost all in white come to him; and she was hiswife; and she says:

"W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm? W-h-a-r-r's my golden arm? W-h-a-r-r's myg-o-l-den arm?"

As Uncle Ned repeated these blood-curdling questions he would look firstone and then another of his listeners in the eyes, with his bands drawnup in front of his breast, his fingers turned out and crooked like claws, while he bent with each question closer to the shrinking forms beforehim. The tone was sepulchral, with awful pause as if waiting each timefor a reply. The culmination came with a pounce on one of the group, ashake of the shoulders, and a shout of:

"YOU'VE got it!' and she tore him all to pieces!"

And the children would shout "Lordy!" and look furtively over theirshoulders, fearing to see a woman in white against the black wall; but, instead, only gloomy, shapeless shadows darted across it as theflickering flames in the fireplace went out on one brand and flared up onanother. Then there was a story of a great ball of fire that used tofollow lonely travelers along dark roads through the woods. 

"Once 'pon a time there was a man, and he was riding along de road and hecome to a ha'nted house, and he heard de chains'a-rattlin' and a-rattlin'and a-rattlin', and a ball of fire come rollin' up and got under hisstirrup, and it didn't make no difference if his horse galloped or wentslow or stood still, de ball of fire staid under his stirrup till he gotplum to de front do', and his wife come out and say: 'My Gord, dat'sdevil fire!' and she had to work a witch spell to drive it away. "

"How big was it, Uncle Ned?"

"Oh, 'bout as big as your head, and I 'spect it's likely to come down disyere chimney 'most any time. "

Certainly an atmosphere like this meant a tropic development for theimagination of a delicate child. All the games and daily talk concernedfanciful semi-African conditions and strange primal possibilities. Thechildren of that day believed in spells and charms and bad-luck signs, all learned of their negro guardians. 

But if the negroes were the chief companions and protectors of thechildren, they were likewise one of their discomforts. The greatest realdread children knew was the fear of meeting runaway slaves. A runawayslave was regarded as worse than a wild beast, and treated worse whencaught. Once the children saw one brought into Florida by six men whotook him to an empty cabin, where they threw him on the floor and boundhim with ropes. His groans were loud and frequent. Such things made animpression that would last a lifetime. 

Slave punishment, too, was not unknown, even in the household. Jennieespecially was often saucy and obstreperous. Jane Clemens, with morestrength of character than of body, once undertook to punish her forinsolence, whereupon Jennie snatched the whip from her hand. JohnClemens was sent for in haste. He came at once, tied Jennie's wriststogether with a bridle rein, and administered chastisement across theshoulders with a cowhide. These were things all calculated to impress asensitive child. 

In pleasant weather the children roamed over the country, hunting berriesand nuts, drinking sugar-water, tying knots in love-vine, picking thepetals from daisies to the formula "Love me-love me not, " alwaysaccompanied by one or more, sometimes by half a dozen, of their smalldarky followers. Shoes were taken off the first of April. For a time apair of old woolen stockings were worn, but these soon disappeared, leaving the feet bare for the summer. One of their dreads was thepossibility of sticking a rusty nail into the foot, as this was liable tocause lockjaw, a malady regarded with awe and terror. They knew whatlockjaw was--Uncle John Quarles's black man, Dan, was subject to it. Sometimes when he opened his mouth to its utmost capacity he felt thejoints slip and was compelled to put down the cornbread, or jole andgreens, or the piece of 'possum he was eating, while his mouth remained afixed abyss until the doctor came and restored it to a natural positionby an exertion of muscular power that would have well-nigh lifted an ox. 

Uncle John Quarles, his home, his farm, his slaves, all were sources ofnever-ending delight. Perhaps the farm was just an ordinary Missourifarm and the slaves just average negroes, but to those children thesethings were never apparent. There was a halo about anything thatbelonged to Uncle John Quarles, and that halo was the jovial, hilariouskindness of that gentle-hearted, humane man. To visit at his house wasfor a child to be in a heaven of mirth and pranks continually. When thechildren came for eggs he would say:

"Your hens won't lay, eh? Tell your maw to feed 'em parched corn anddrive 'em uphill, " and this was always a splendid stroke of humor to hissmall hearers. 

Also, he knew how to mimic with his empty hands the peculiar patting andtossing of a pone of corn-bread before placing it in the oven. He wouldmake the most fearful threats to his own children, for disobedience, butnever executed any of them. When they were out fishing and returned latehe would say:

"You--if I have to hunt you again after dark, I will make you smell likea burnt horn!"

Nothing could exceed the ferocity of this threat, and all the children, with delightful terror and curiosity, wondered what would happen--if itever did happen--that would result in giving a child that peculiar savor. Altogether it was a curious early childhood that Little Sam had--at leastit seems so to us now. Doubtless it was commonplace enough for that timeand locality. 

V

THE WAY OF FORTUNE

Perhaps John Quarles's jocular, happy-go-lucky nature and general conductdid not altogether harmonize with John Clemens's more taciturn businessmethods. Notwithstanding the fact that he was a builder of dreams, Clemens was neat and methodical, with his papers always in order. He hada hearty dislike for anything resembling frivolity and confusion, whichvery likely were the chief features of John Quarles's storekeeping. Atall events, they dissolved partnership at the end of two or three years, and Clemens opened business for himself across the street. He alsopractised law whenever there were cases, and was elected justice of thepeace, acquiring the permanent title of "Judge. " He needed some one toassist in the store, and took in Orion, who was by this time twelve orthirteen years old; but, besides his youth, Orion--all his days avisionary--was a studious, pensive lad with no taste for commerce. Thena partnership was formed with a man who developed neither capital norbusiness ability, and proved a disaster in the end. The modest tide ofsuccess which had come with John Clemens's establishment at Florida hadbegun to wane. Another boy, Henry, born in July, 1838, added one moreresponsibility to his burdens. 

There still remained a promise of better things. There seemed at least agood prospect that the scheme for making Salt River navigable was likelyto become operative. With even small boats (bateaux) running as high asthe lower branch of the South Fork, Florida would become an emporium oftrade, and merchants and property-owners of that village would reap aharvest. An act of the Legislature was passed incorporating thenavigation company, with Judge Clemens as its president. Congress waspetitioned to aid this work of internal improvement. So confident wasthe company of success that the hamlet was thrown into a fever ofexcitement by the establishment of a boatyard and, the actualconstruction of a bateau; but a Democratic Congress turned its back onthe proposed improvement. No boat bigger than a skiff ever ascended SaltRiver, though there was a wild report, evidently a hoax, that a party ofpicnickers had seen one night a ghostly steamer, loaded and manned, puffing up the stream. An old Scotchman, Hugh Robinson, when he heard ofit, said:

"I don't doubt a word they say. In Scotland, it often happens that whenpeople have been killed, or are troubled, they send their spirits abroadand they are seen as much like themselves as a reflection in alooking-glass. That was a ghost of some wrecked steamboat. "

But John Quarles, who was present, laughed:

"If ever anybody was in trouble, the men on that steamboat were, " hesaid. "They were the Democratic candidates at the last election. Theykilled Salt River improvements, and Salt River has killed them. Theirghosts went up the river on a ghostly steamboat. "

It is possible that this comment, which was widely repeated and traveledfar, was the origin of the term "Going up Salt River, " as applied todefeated political candidates. --[The dictionaries give this phrase asprobably traceable to a small, difficult stream in Kentucky; but it seemsmore reasonable to believe that it originated in Quarles's wittycomment. ]

No other attempt was ever made to establish navigation on Salt River. Rumors of railroads already running in the East put an end to any suchthought. Railroads could run anywhere and were probably cheaper andeasier to maintain than the difficult navigation requiring locks anddams. Salt River lost its prestige as a possible water highway andbecame mere scenery. Railroads have ruined greater rivers than theLittle Salt, and greater villages than Florida, though neither Floridanor Salt River has been touched by a railroad to this day. Perhaps suchclose detail of early history may be thought unnecessary in a work ofthis kind, but all these things were definite influences in the career ofthe little lad whom the world would one day know as Mark Twain. 

VI

A NEW HOME

The death of little Margaret was the final misfortune that came to theClemens family in Florida. Doubtless it hastened their departure. Therewas a superstition in those days that to refer to health as good luck, rather than to ascribe it to the kindness of Providence, was to bringabout a judgment. Jane Clemens one day spoke to a neighbor of their goodluck in thus far having lost no member of their family. That same day, when the sisters, Pamela and Margaret, returned from school, Margaretlaid her books on the table, looked in the glass at her flushed cheeks, pulled out the trundle-bed, and lay down. 

She was never in her right mind again. The doctor was sent for anddiagnosed the case "bilious fever. " One evening, about nine o'clock, Orion was sitting on the edge of the trundle-bed by the patient, when thedoor opened and Little Sam, then about four years old, walked in from hisbedroom, fast asleep. He came to the side of the trundle-bed and pulledat the bedding near Margaret's shoulder for some time before he woke. Next day the little girl was "picking at the coverlet, " and it was knownthat she could not live. About a week later she died. She was nineyears old, a beautiful child, plump in form, with rosy cheeks, blackhair, and bright eyes. This was in August, 1839. It was Little Sam'sfirst sight of death--the first break in the Clemens family: it left asad household. The shoemaker who lived next door claimed to have seenseveral weeks previous, in a vision, the coffin and thefuneral-procession pass the gate by the winding road, to the cemetery, exactly as it happened. 

Matters were now going badly enough with John Clemens. Yet he never waswithout one great comforting thought--the future of the Tennessee land. It underlaid every plan; it was an anodyne for every ill. 

"When we sell the Tennessee land everything will be all right, " was therefrain that brought solace in the darkest hours. A blessing for himthat this was so, for he had little else to brighten his days. Negotiations looking to the sale of the land were usually in progress. When the pressure became very hard and finances were at their lowest ebb, it was offered at any price--at five cents an acre, sometimes. Whenconditions improved, however little, the price suddenly advanced even toits maximum of one thousand dollars an acre. Now and then a genuineoffer came along, but, though eagerly welcomed at the moment, it wasalways refused after a little consideration. 

"We will struggle along somehow, Jane, " he would say. "We will not throwaway the children's fortune. "

There was one other who believed in the Tennessee land--Jane Clemens'sfavorite cousin, James Lampton, the courtliest, gentlest, most prodigaloptimist of all that guileless race. To James Lampton the land alwayshad "millions in it"--everything had. He made stupendous fortunes daily, in new ways. The bare mention of the Tennessee land sent him off intofigures that ended with the purchase of estates in England adjoiningthose of the Durham Lamptons, whom he always referred to as "ourkindred, " casually mentioning the whereabouts and health of the "presentearl. " Mark Twain merely put James Lampton on paper when he createdColonel Sellers, and the story of the Hawkins family as told in TheGilded Age reflects clearly the struggle of those days. The words"Tennessee land, " with their golden promise, became his earliestremembered syllables. He grew to detest them in time, for they came tomean mockery. 

One of the offers received was the trifling sum of two hundred and fiftydollars, and such was the moment's need that even this was considered. Then, of course, it was scornfully refused. In some autobiographicalchapters which Orion Clemens left behind he said:

"If we had received that two hundred and fifty dollars, it would havebeen more than we ever made, clear of expenses, out of the whole of theTennessee land, after forty years of worry to three generations. "

What a less speculative and more logical reasoner would have done in thebeginning, John Clemens did now; he selected a place which, though littlemore than a village, was on a river already navigable--a steamboat townwith at least the beginnings of manufacturing and trade alreadyestablished--that is to say, Hannibal, Missouri--a point well chosen, asshown by its prosperity to-day. 

He did not delay matters. When he came to a decision, he acted quickly. He disposed of a portion of his goods and shipped the remainder overland;then, with his family and chattels loaded in a wagon, he was ready to setout for the new home. Orion records that, for some reason, his fatherdid not invite him to get into the wagon, and how, being always sensitiveto slight, he had regarded this in the light of deliberate desertion. 

"The sense of abandonment caused my heart to ache. The wagon had gone afew feet when I was discovered and invited to enter. How I wished theyhad not missed me until they had arrived at Hannibal. Then the worldwould have seen how I was treated and would have cried 'Shame!'"

This incident, noted and remembered, long after became curiously confusedwith another, in Mark Twain's mind. In an autobiographical chapterpublished in The North American Review he tells of the move to Hannibaland relates that he himself was left behind by his absentminded family. The incident of his own abandonment did not happen then, but later, andsomewhat differently. It would indeed be an absent-minded family if theparents, and the sister and brothers ranging up to fourteen years of age, should drive off leaving Little Sam, age four, behind. 

--[As mentioned in the Prefatory Note, Mark Twain's memory played himmany tricks in later life. Incidents were filtered through his vividimagination until many of them bore little relation to the actualoccurrence. Some of these lapses were only amusing, but occasionallythey worked an unintentional injustice. It is the author's purpose inevery instance, so far as is possible, to keep the record straight. ]

VII

THE LITTLE TOWN OF HANNIBAL

Hannibal in 1839 was already a corporate community and had an atmosphereof its own. It was a town with a distinct Southern flavor, though rathermore astir than the true Southern community of that period; more Westernin that it planned, though without excitement, certain new enterprisesand made a show, at least, of manufacturing. It was somnolent (a slavetown could not be less than that), but it was not wholly asleep--that isto say, dead--and it was tranquilly content. Mark Twain remembered it as"the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer morning, . . . Thegreat Mississippi, the magnificent Mississippi, rolling its mile-widetide along; . . . The dense forest away on the other side. "

The little city was proud of its scenery, and justly so: circled withbluffs, with Holliday's Hill on the north, Lover's Leap on the south, theshining river in the foreground, there was little to be desired in theway of setting. 

The river, of course, was the great highway. Rafts drifted by;steamboats passed up and down and gave communication to the outsideworld; St. Louis, the metropolis, was only one hundred miles away. Hannibal was inclined to rank itself as of next importance, and took onairs accordingly. It had society, too--all kinds--from the negroes andthe town drunkards ("General" Gaines and Jimmy Finn; later, Old BenBlankenship) up through several nondescript grades of mechanics andtradesmen to the professional men of the community, who wore tall hats, ruffled shirt-fronts, and swallow-tail coats, usually of some positivecolor-blue, snuff-brown, and green. These and their families constitutedthe true aristocracy of the Southern town. Most of them had pleasanthomes--brick or large frame mansions, with colonnaded entrances, afterthe manner of all Southern architecture of that period, which had anundoubted Greek root, because of certain drawing-books, it is said, accessible to the builders of those days. Most of them, also, had means--slaves and land which yielded an income in addition to theirprofessional earnings. They lived in such style as was consideredfitting to their rank, and had such comforts as were then obtainable. 

It was to this grade of society that judge Clemens and his familybelonged, but his means no longer enabled him to provide either thecomforts or the ostentation of his class. He settled his family andbelongings in a portion of a house on Hill Street--the Pavey Hotel; hismerchandise he established modestly on Main Street, with Orion, in a newsuit of clothes, as clerk. Possibly the clothes gave Orion a renewedambition for mercantile life, but this waned. Business did not beginactively, and he was presently dreaming and reading away the time. Alittle later he became a printer's apprentice, in the office of theHannibal Journal, at his father's suggestion. 

Orion Clemens perhaps deserves a special word here. He was to be muchassociated with his more famous brother for many years, and hispersonality as boy and man is worth at least a casual consideration. Hewas fifteen now, and had developed characteristics which in a greater orless degree were to go with him through life. Of a kindly, lovingdisposition, like all of the Clemens children, quick of temper, butalways contrite, or forgiving, he was never without the fond regard ofthose who knew him best. His weaknesses were manifold, but, on thewhole, of a negative kind. Honorable and truthful, he had no tendency tobad habits or unworthy pursuits; indeed, he had no positive traits of anysort. That was his chief misfortune. Full of whims and fancies, unstable, indeterminate, he was swayed by every passing emotion andinfluence. Daily he laid out a new course of study and achievement, onlyto fling it aside because of some chance remark or printed paragraph orbit of advice that ran contrary to his purpose. Such a life is bound tobe a succession of extremes--alternate periods of supreme exaltation anddespair. In his autobiographical chapters, already mentioned, Orion setsdown every impulse and emotion and failure with that faithful humilitywhich won him always the respect, if not always the approval, of men. 

Printing was a step downward, for it was a trade, and Orion felt itkeenly. A gentleman's son and a prospective heir of the Tennessee land, he was entitled to a profession. To him it was punishment, and thedisgrace weighed upon him. Then he remembered that Benjamin Franklin hadbeen a printer and had eaten only an apple and a bunch of grapes for hisdinner. Orion decided to emulate Franklin, and for a time he took only abiscuit and a glass of water at a meal, foreseeing the day when he shouldelectrify the world with his eloquence. He was surprised to find howclear his mind was on this low diet and how rapidly he learned his trade. 

Of the other children Pamela, now twelve, and Benjamin, seven, were putto school. They were pretty, attractive children, and Henry, the baby, was a sturdy toddler, the pride of the household. Little Sam was theleast promising of the flock. He remained delicate, and developed littlebeyond a tendency to pranks. He was a queer, fanciful, uncommunicativechild that detested indoors and would run away if not watched--always inthe direction of the river. He walked in his sleep, too, and often therest of the household got up in the middle of the night to find himfretting with cold in some dark corner. The doctor was summoned for himoftener than was good for the family purse--or for him, perhaps, if wemay credit the story of heavy dosings of those stern allopathic days. 

Yet he would appear not to have been satisfied with his heritage ofailments, and was ambitious for more. An epidemic of measles--the black, deadly kind--was ravaging Hannibal, and he yearned for the complaint. Heyearned so much that when he heard of a playmate, one of the Bowen boys, who had it, he ran away and, slipping into the house, crept into bed withthe infection. The success of this venture was complete. Some dayslater, the Clemens family gathered tearfully around Little Sam's bed tosee him die. According to his own after-confession, this gratified him, and he was willing to die for the glory of that touching scene. However, he disappointed them, and was presently up and about in search of freshlaurels. --[In later life Mr. Clemens did not recollect the precise periodof this illness. With habitual indifference he assigned it to variousyears, as his mood or the exigencies of his theme required. Without doubtthe "measles" incident occurred when he was very young. ]--He must havebeen a wearing child, and we may believe that Jane Clemens, with hervaried cares and labors, did not always find him a comfort. 

"You gave me more uneasiness than any child I had, " she said to him once, in her old age. 

"I suppose you were afraid I wouldn't live, " he suggested, in histranquil fashion. 

She looked at him with that keen humor that had not dulled in eightyyears. "No; afraid you would, " she said. But that was only her joke, for she was the most tenderhearted creature in the world, and, likemothers in general, had a weakness for the child that demanded most ofher mother's care. 

It was mainly on his account that she spent her summers on John Quarles'sfarm near Florida, and it was during the first summer that an incidentalready mentioned occurred. It was decided that the whole family shouldgo for a brief visit, and one Saturday morning in June Mrs. Clemens, withthe three elder children and the baby, accompanied by Jennie, theslave-girl, set out in a light wagon for the day's drive, leaving JudgeClemens to bring Little Sam on horseback Sunday morning. The hour wasearly when Judge Clemens got up to saddle his horse, and Little Sam wasstill asleep. The horse being ready, Clemens, his mind far away, mountedand rode off without once remembering the little boy, and in the courseof the afternoon arrived at his brother-in-law's farm. Then he wasconfronted by Jane Clemens, who demanded Little Sam. 

"Why, " said the judge, aghast, "I never once thought of him after I lefthim asleep. "

Wharton Lampton, a brother of Jane Clemens and Patsey Quarles, hastilysaddled a horse and set out, helter-skelter, for Hannibal. He arrived inthe early dusk. The child was safe enough, but he was crying withloneliness and hunger. He had spent most of the day in the locked, deserted house playing with a hole in the meal-sack where the meal ranout, when properly encouraged, in a tiny stream. He was fed andcomforted, and next day was safe on the farm, which during that summerand those that followed it, became so large a part of his boyhood andlent a coloring to his later years. 

VIII

THE FARM

We have already mentioned the delight of the Clemens children in UncleJohn Quarles's farm. To Little Sam it was probably a life-saver. Withhis small cousin, Tabitha, --[Tabitha Quarles, now Mrs. Greening, ofPalmyra, Missouri, has supplied most of the material for this chapter. ]--just his own age (they called her Puss), he wandered over that magicdomain, fording new marvels at every step, new delights everywhere. Aslave-girl, Mary, usually attended them, but she was only six yearsolder, and not older at all in reality, so she was just a playmate, andnot a guardian to be feared or evaded. Sometimes, indeed, it wasnecessary for her to threaten to tell "Miss Patsey" or "Miss Jane, " whenher little charges insisted on going farther or staying later than shethought wise from the viewpoint of her own personal safety; but this wasseldom, and on the whole a stay at the farm was just one long idyllicdream of summer-time and freedom. 

The farm-house stood in the middle of a large yard entered by a stilemade of sawed-off logs of graduated heights. In the corner of the yardwere hickory trees, and black walnut, and beyond the fence the hill fellaway past the barns, the corn-cribs, and the tobacco-house to a brook--adivine place to wade, with deep, dark, forbidden pools. Down in thepasture there were swings under the big trees, and Mary swung thechildren and ran under them until their feet touched the branches, andthen took her turn and "balanced" herself so high that their one wish wasto be as old as Mary and swing in that splendid way. All the woods werefull of squirrels--gray squirrels and the red-fox species--and many birdsand flowers; all the meadows were gay with clover and butterflies, andmusical with singing grasshoppers and calling larks; there wereblackberries in the fence rows, apples and peaches in the orchard, andwatermelons in the corn. They were not always ripe, those watermelons, and once, when Little Sam had eaten several pieces of a green one, he wasseized with cramps so severe that most of the household expected him todie forthwith. 

Jane Clemens was not heavily concerned. 

"Sammy will pull through, " she said; "he wasn't born to die that way. "

It is the slender constitution that bears the strain. "Sammy" did pullthrough, and in a brief time was ready for fresh adventure. 

There were plenty of these: there were the horses to ride to and from thefields; the ox-wagons to ride in when they had dumped their heavy loads;the circular horsepower to ride on when they threshed the wheat. Thislast was a dangerous and forbidden pleasure, but the children would dartbetween the teams and climb on, and the slave who was driving wouldpretend not to see. Then in the evening when the black woman came along, going after the cows, the children would race ahead and set the cowsrunning and jingling their bells--especially Little Sam, for he was awild-headed, impetuous child of sudden ecstasies that sent him caperingand swinging his arms, venting his emotions in a series of leaps andshrieks and somersaults, and spasms of laughter as he lay rolling in thegrass. 

His tendency to mischief grew with this wide liberty, improved health, and the encouragement of John Quarles's good-natured, fun-loving slaves. 

The negro quarters beyond the orchard were especially attractive. In onecabin lived a bed-ridden, white-headed old woman whom the childrenvisited daily and looked upon with awe; for she was said to be a thousandyears old and to have talked with Moses. The negroes believed this; thechildren, too, of course, and that she had lost her health in the desert, coming out of Egypt. The bald spot on her head was caused by fright atseeing Pharaoh drowned. She also knew how to avert spells and ward offwitches, which added greatly to her prestige. Uncle Dan'l was afavorite, too-kind-hearted and dependable, while his occasional lockjawgave him an unusual distinction. Long afterward he would become NiggerJim in the Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn tales, and so in his gentleguilelessness win immortality and the love of many men. 

Certainly this was a heavenly place for a little boy, the farm of UncleJohn Quarles, and the house was as wonderful as its surroundings. It wasa two-story double log building, with a spacious floor (roofed in)connecting the two divisions. In the summer the table was set in themiddle of that shady, breezy pavilion, and sumptuous meals were served inthe lavish Southern style, brought to the table in vast dishes that leftonly room for rows of plates around the edge. Fried chicken, roast pig, turkeys, ducks, geese, venison just killed, squirrels, rabbits, partridges, pheasants, prairie-chickens--the list is too long to beserved here. If a little boy could not improve on that bill of fare andin that atmosphere, his case was hopeless indeed. His mother kept himthere until the late fall, when the chilly evenings made them gatheraround the wide, blazing fireplace. Sixty years later he wrote of thatscene:

 I can see the room yet with perfect clearness. I can see all its buildings, all its details: the family-room of the house, with the trundle-bed in one corner and the spinning-wheel in another a wheel whose rising and falling wail, heard from a distance, was the mournfulest of all sounds to me, and made me homesick and low- spirited, and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the dead; the vast fireplace, piled high with flaming logs, from whose ends a sugary sap bubbled out, but did not go to waste, for we scraped it off and ate it; . . . The lazy cat spread out on the rough hearthstones, the drowsy dogs braced against the jambs, blinking; my aunt in one chimney-corner and my uncle in the other smoking his corn-cob pipe; the slick and carpetless oak floor faintly mirroring the flame tongues, and freckled with black indentations where fire-coals had popped out and died a leisurely death; half a dozen children romping in the background twilight; splint-bottom chairs here and there--some with rockers; a cradle --out of service, but waiting with confidence. 

One is tempted to dwell on this period, to quote prodigally from thesevivid memories--the thousand minute impressions which the child'ssensitive mind acquired in that long-ago time and would reveal everywherein his work in the years to come. For him it was education of a morevaluable and lasting sort than any he would ever acquire from books. 

IX

SCHOOL-DAYS

Nevertheless, on his return to Hannibal, it was decided that Little Samwas now ready to go to school. He was about five years old, and themonths on the farm had left him wiry and lively, even if not very robust. His mother declared that he gave her more trouble than all the otherchildren put together. 

"He drives me crazy with his didoes, when he is in the house, " she usedto say; "and when he is out of it I am expecting every minute that someone will bring him home half dead. "

He did, in fact, achieve the first of his "nine narrow escapes fromdrowning" about this time, and was pulled out of the river one afternoonand brought home in a limp and unpromising condition. When with mulleintea and castor-oil she had restored him to activity, she said: "I guessthere wasn't much danger. People born to be hanged are safe in water. "

She declared she was willing to pay somebody to take him off her handsfor a part of each day and try to teach him manners. Perhaps this is agood place to say that Jane Clemens was the original of Tom Sawyer's"Aunt Polly, " and her portrait as presented in that book is consideredperfect. Kind-hearted, fearless, looking and acting ten years older thanher age, as women did in that time, always outspoken and sometimessevere, she was regarded as a "character" by her friends, and beloved bythem as, a charitable, sympathetic woman whom it was good to know. Hersense of pity was abnormal. She refused to kill even flies, and punishedthe cat for catching mice. She, would drown the young kittens, whennecessary, but warmed the water for the purpose. On coming to Hannibal, she joined the Presbyterian Church, and her religion was of thatclean-cut, strenuous kind which regards as necessary institutions helland Satan, though she had been known to express pity for the latter forbeing obliged to surround himself with such poor society. Her childrenshe directed with considerable firmness, and all were tractable andgrowing in grace except Little Sam. Even baby Henry at two was lispingthe prayers that Sam would let go by default unless carefully guarded. His sister Pamela, who was eight years older and always loved him dearly, usually supervised these spiritual exercises, and in her gentle careearned immortality as the Cousin Mary of Tom Sawyer. He would say hisprayers willingly enough when encouraged by sister Pamela, but he muchpreferred to sit up in bed and tell astonishing tales of the day'sadventure--tales which made prayer seem a futile corrective and causedhis listeners to wonder why the lightning was restrained so long. Theydid not know they were glimpsing the first outcroppings of a genius thatwould one day amaze and entertain the nations. Neighbors hearing ofthese things (also certain of his narrations) remonstrated with Mrs. Clemens. 

"You don't believe anything that child says, I hope. "

"Oh yes, I know his average. I discount him ninety per cent. The restis pure gold. " At another time she said: "Sammy is a well of truth, butyou can't bring it all up in one bucket. "

This, however, is digression; the incidents may have happened somewhatlater. 

A certain Miss E. Horr was selected to receive the payment for takingcharge of Little Sam during several hours each day, directing himmentally and morally in the mean time. Her school was then in a loghouse on Main Street (later it was removed to Third Street), and was ofthe primitive old-fashioned kind, with pupils of all ages, ranging inadvancement from the primer to the third reader, from the tables to longdivision, with a little geography and grammar and a good deal ofspelling. Long division and the third reader completed the curriculum inthat school. Pupils who decided to take a post-graduate course went to aMr. Cross, who taught in a frame house on the hill facing what is now thePublic Square. 

Miss Horr received twenty-five cents a week for each pupil, and openedher school with prayer; after which came a chapter of the Bible, withexplanations, and the rules of conduct. Then the A B C class was called, because their recital was a hand-to-hand struggle, requiring nopreparation. 

The rules of conduct that first day interested Little Sam. He calculatedhow much he would need to trim in, to sail close to the danger-line andstill avoid disaster. He made a miscalculation during the forenoon andreceived warning; a second offense would mean punishment. He did notmean to be caught the second time, but he had not learned Miss Horr yet, and was presently startled by being commanded to go out and bring a stickfor his own correction. 

This was certainly disturbing. It was sudden, and then he did not knowmuch about the selection of sticks. Jane Clemens had usually used herhand. It required a second command to get him headed in the rightdirection, and he was a trifle dazed when he got outside. He had theforests of Missouri to select from, but choice was difficult. Everythinglooked too big and competent. Even the smallest switch had a wiry, discouraging look. Across the way was a cooper-shop with a good manyshavings outside. 

One had blown across and lay just in front of him. It was aninspiration. He picked it up and, solemnly entering the school-room, meekly handed it to Miss Herr. 

Perhaps Miss Horr's sense of humor prompted forgiveness, but disciplinemust be maintained. 

"Samuel Langhorne Clemens, " she said (he had never heard it all strungtogether in that ominous way), "I am ashamed of you! Jimmy Dunlap, goand bring a switch for Sammy. " And Jimmy Dunlap went, and the switch wasof a sort to give the little boy an immediate and permanent distaste forschool. He informed his mother when he went home at noon that he did notcare for school; that he had no desire to be a great man; that hepreferred to be a pirate or an Indian and scalp or drown such people asMiss Horr. Down in her heart his mother was sorry for him, but what shesaid was that she was glad there was somebody at last who could take himin hand. 

He returned to school, but he never learned to like it. Each morning hewent with reluctance and remained with loathing--the loathing which healways had for anything resembling bondage and tyranny or even thesmallest curtailment of liberty. A School was ruled with a rod in thosedays, a busy and efficient rod, as the Scripture recommended. Of thesmaller boys Little Sam's back was sore as often as the next, and hedreamed mainly of a day when, grown big and fierce, he would descend withhis band and capture Miss Horr and probably drag her by the hair, as hehad seen Indians and pirates do in the pictures. When the days of earlysummer came again; when from his desk he could see the sunshine lightingthe soft green of Holliday's Hill, with the purple distance beyond, andthe glint of the river, it seemed to him that to be shut up with aWebster's spelling-book and a cross old maid was more than human naturecould bear. Among the records preserved from that far-off day thereremains a yellow slip, whereon in neat old-fashioned penmanship isinscribed:

 MISS PAMELA CLEMENS

 Has won the love of her teacher and schoolmates by her amiable deportment and faithful application to her various studies. E. Horr, Teacher. 

If any such testimonial was ever awarded to Little Sam, diligent searchhas failed to reveal it. If he won the love of his teacher and playmatesit was probably for other reasons. 

Yet he must have learned, somehow, for he could read presently and wassoon regarded as a good speller for his years. His spelling came as anatural gift, as did most of his attainments, then and later. 

It has already been mentioned that Miss Horr opened her school withprayer and Scriptural readings. Little Sam did not especially delight inthese things, but he respected them. Not to do so was dangerous. Flameswere being kept brisk for little boys who were heedless of sacredmatters; his home teaching convinced him of that. He also respected MissHorr as an example of orthodox faith, and when she read the text "Ask andye shall receive" and assured them that whoever prayed for a thingearnestly, his prayer would be answered, he believed it. A smallschoolmate, the balker's daughter, brought gingerbread to school everymorning, and Little Sam was just "honing" for some of it. He wanted apiece of that baker's gingerbread more than anything else in the world, and he decided to pray for it. 

The little girl sat in front of him, but always until that morning hadkept the gingerbread out of sight. Now, however, when he finished hisprayer and looked up, a small morsel of the precious food lay in front ofhim. Perhaps the little girl could no longer stand that hungry look inhis eyes. Possibly she had heard his petition; at all events his prayerbore fruit and his faith at that moment would have moved Holliday's Hill. He decided to pray for everything he wanted, but when he tried thegingerbread supplication next morning it had no result. Grieved, butstill unshaken, he tried next morning again; still no gingerbread; andwhen a third and fourth effort left him hungry he grew despairing andsilent, and wore the haggard face of doubt. His mother said:

"What's the matter, Sammy; are you sick?"

"No, " he said, "but I don't believe in saying prayers any more, and I'mnever going to do it again. "

"Why, Sammy, what in the world has happened?" she asked, anxiously. Thenhe broke down and cried on her lap and told her, for it was a seriousthing in that day openly to repudiate faith. Jane Clemens gathered himto her heart and comforted him. 

"I'll make you a whole pan of gingerbread, better than that, " she said, "and school will soon be out, too, and you can go back to Uncle John'sfarm. "

And so passed and ended Little Sam's first school-days. 

X

EARLY VICISSITUDE AND SORROW

Prosperity came laggingly enough to the Clemens household. The year 1840brought hard times: the business venture paid little or no return; lawpractice was not much more remunerative. Judge Clemens ran for theoffice of justice of the peace and was elected, but fees were neitherlarge nor frequent. By the end of the year it became necessary to partwith Jennie, the slave-girl--a grief to all of them, for they were fondof her in spite of her wilfulness, and she regarded them as "her family. "She was tall, well formed, nearly black, and brought a good price. AMethodist minister in Hannibal sold a negro child at the same time toanother minister who took it to his home farther South. As the steamboatmoved away from the landing the child's mother stood at the water's edge, shrieking her anguish. We are prone to consider these things harshlynow, when slavery has been dead for nearly half a century, but it was asacred institution then, and to sell a child from its mother was littlemore than to sell to-day a calf from its lowing dam. One could be sorry, of course, in both instances, but necessity or convenience are mattersusually considered before sentiment. Mark Twain once said of his mother:

"Kind-hearted and compassionate as she was, I think she was not consciousthat slavery was a bald, grotesque, and unwarranted usurpation. She hadnever heard it assailed in any pulpit, but had heard it defended andsanctified in a thousand. As far as her experience went, the wise, thegood, and the holy were unanimous in the belief that slavery was right, righteous, sacred, the peculiar pet of the Deity, and a condition whichthe slave himself ought to be daily and nightly thankful for. "

Yet Jane Clemens must have had qualms at times--vague, unassembled doubtsthat troubled her spirit. After Jennie was gone a little black chore-boywas hired from his owner, who had bought him on the east shore ofMaryland and brought him to that remote Western village, far from familyand friends. 

He was a cheery spirit in spite of that, and gentle, but very noisy. Allday he went about singing, whistling, and whooping until his noise becamemonotonous, maddening. One day Little Sam said:

"Ma--[that was the Southern term]--make Sandy stop singing all the time. It's awful. "

Tears suddenly came into his mother's eyes. 

"Poor thing! He is sold away from his home. When he sings it showsmaybe he is not remembering. When he's still I am afraid he is thinking, and I can't bear it. "

Yet any one in that day who advanced the idea of freeing the slaves washeld in abhorrence. An abolitionist was something to despise, to stoneout of the community. The children held the name in horror, as belongingto something less than human; something with claws, perhaps, and a tail. 

The money received for the sale of Jennie made judge Clemens easier for atime. Business appears to have improved, too, and he was tided throughanother year during which he seems to have made payments on an expensivepiece of real estate on Hill and Main streets. This property, acquiredin November, 1839, meant the payment of some seven thousand dollars, andwas a credit purchase, beyond doubt. It was well rented, but the tenantsdid not always pay; and presently a crisis came--a descent of creditors--and John: Clemens at forty-four found himself without business andwithout means. He offered everything--his cow, his household furniture, even his forks and spoons--to his creditors, who protested that he mustnot strip himself. They assured him that they admired his integrity somuch they would aid him to resume business; but when he went to St. Louisto lay in a stock of goods he was coldly met, and the venture came tonothing. 

He now made a trip to Tennessee in the hope of collecting some old debtsand to raise money on the Tennessee land. He took along a negro mannamed Charlie, whom he probably picked up for a small sum, hoping to makesomething through his disposal in a better market. The trip was anotherfailure. The man who owed him a considerable sum of money was solvent, but pleaded hard times:

 It seems so very hard upon him--[John Clemens wrote home]--to pay such a sum that I could not have the conscience to hold him to it. . . I still have Charlie. The highest price I had offered for him in New Orleans was $50, in Vicksburg $40. After performing the journey to Tennessee, I expect to sell him for whatever he will bring. 

 I do not know what I can commence for a business in the spring. My brain is constantly on the rack with the study, and I can't relieve myself of it. The future, taking its completion from the state of my health or mind, is alternately beaming in sunshine or over- shadowed with clouds; but mostly cloudy, as you may suppose. I want bodily exercise--some constant and active employment, in the first place; and, in the next place, I want to be paid for it, if possible. 

This letter is dated January 7, 1842. He returned without any financialsuccess, and obtained employment for a time in a commission-house on thelevee. The proprietor found some fault one day, and Judge Clemens walkedout of the premises. On his way home he stopped in a general store, keptby a man named Sehns, to make some purchases. When he asked that thesebe placed on account, Selms hesitated. Judge Clemens laid down afive-dollar gold piece, the last money he possessed in the world, tookthe goods, and never entered the place again. 

When Jane Clemens reproached him for having made the trip to Tennessee, at a cost of two hundred dollars, so badly needed at this time, he onlyreplied gently that he had gone for what he believed to be the best. 

"I am not able to dig in the streets, " he added, and Orion, who recordsthis, adds:

"I can see yet the hopeless expression of his face. "

During a former period of depression, such as this, death had come intothe Clemens home. It came again now. Little Benjamin, a sensitive, amiable boy of ten, one day sickened, and died within a week, May 12, 1842. He was a favorite child and his death was a terrible blow. LittleSam long remembered the picture of his parents' grief; and Orion recallsthat they kissed each other, something hitherto unknown. 

Judge Clemens went back to his law and judicial practice. Mrs. Clemensdecided to take a few boarders. Orion, by this time seventeen and a verygood journeyman printer, obtained a place in St. Louis to aid in thefamily support. 

The tide of fortune having touched low-water mark, the usual gentle stageof improvement set in. Times grew better in Hannibal after those firsttwo or three years; legal fees became larger and more frequent. Withinanother two years judge Clemens appears to have been in fairly hopefulcircumstances again--able at least to invest some money in silkwormculture and lose it, also to buy a piano for Pamela, and to build amodest house on the Hill Street property, which a rich St. Louis cousin, James Clemens, had preserved for him. It was the house which is knowntoday as the "Mark Twain Home. "--['This house, in 1911, was bought by Mr. And Mrs. George A. Mahan, and presented to Hannibal for a memorialmuseum. ]--Near it, toward the corner of Main Street, was his office, andhere he dispensed law and justice in a manner which, if it did not bringhim affluence, at least won for him the respect of the entire community. One example will serve:

Next to his office was a stone-cutter's shop. One day the proprietor, Dave Atkinson, got into a muss with one "Fighting" MacDonald, and therewas a tremendous racket. Judge Clemens ran out and found the men down, punishing each other on the pavement. 

"I command the peace!" he shouted, as he came up to them. 

No one paid the least attention. 

"I command the peace!" he shouted again, still louder, but with noresult. 

A stone-cutter's mallet lay there, handy. Judge Clemens seized it and, leaning over the combatants, gave the upper one, MacDonald, a smart blowon the head. 

"I command the peace!" he said, for the third time, and struck aconsiderably smarter blow. 

That settled it. The second blow was of the sort that made MacDonaldroll over, and peace ensued. Judge Clemens haled both men into hiscourt, fined them, and collected his fee. Such enterprise in the causeof justice deserved prompt reward. 

XI

DAYS OF EDUCATION

The Clemens family had made one or two moves since its arrival inHannibal, but the identity of these temporary residences and the periodof occupation of each can no longer be established. Mark Twain oncesaid:

"In 1843 my father caught me in a lie. It is not this fact that gives methe date, but the house we lived in. We were there only a year. "

We may believe it was the active result of that lie that fixed his memoryof the place, for his father seldom punished him. When he did, it was athorough and satisfactory performance. 

It was about the period of moving into the new house (1844) that the TomSawyer days--that is to say, the boyhood of Samuel Clemens--may be saidto have begun. Up to that time he was just Little Sam, a child--wild, and mischievous, often exasperating, but still a child--a delicate littlelad to be worried over, mothered, or spanked and put to bed. Now, atnine, he had acquired health, with a sturdy ability to look out forhimself, as boys will, in a community like that, especially where thefamily is rather larger than the income and there is still a youngerchild to claim a mother's protecting care. So "Sam, " as they now calledhim, "grew up" at nine, and was full of knowledge for his years. Notthat he was old in spirit or manner--he was never that, even to hisdeath--but he had learned a great number of things, mostly of a kind notacquired at school. 

They were not always of a pleasant kind; they were likely to be of a kindstartling to a boy, even terrifying. Once Little Sam--he was stillLittle Sam, then--saw an old man shot down on the main street, atnoonday. He saw them carry him home, lay him on the bed, and spread onhis breast an open family Bible which looked as heavy as an anvil. Hethough, if he could only drag that great burden away, the poor, old dyingman would not breathe so heavily. He saw a young emigrant stabbed with abowie-knife by a drunken comrade, and noted the spurt of life-blood thatfollowed; he saw two young men try to kill their uncle, one holding himwhile the other snapped repeatedly an Allen revolver which failed to gooff. Then there was the drunken rowdy who proposed to raid the"Welshman's" house one dark threatening night--he saw that, too. A widowand her one daughter lived there, and the ruffian woke the whole villagewith his coarse challenges and obscenities. Sam Clemens and a booncompanion, John Briggs, went up there to look and listen. The man was atthe gate, and the warren were invisible in the shadow of the dark porch. The boys heard the elder woman's voice warning the man that she had aloaded gun, and that she would kill him if he stayed where he was. Hereplied with a ribald tirade, and she warned that she would countten-that if he remained a second longer she would fire. She began slowlyand counted up to five, with him laughing and jeering. At six he grewsilent, but he did not go. She counted on: seven--eight--nine--The boyswatching from the dark roadside felt their hearts stop. There was a longpause, then the final count, followed a second later by a gush of flame. The man dropped, his breast riddled. At the same instant thethunderstorm that had been gathering broke loose. The boys fled wildly, believing that Satan himself had arrived to claim the lost soul. 

Many such instances happened in a town like that in those days. Andthere were events incident to slavery. He saw a slave struck down andkilled with a piece of slag for a trifling offense. He saw anabolitionist attacked by a mob, and they would have lynched him had not aMethodist minister defended him on a plea that he must be crazy. He didnot remember, in later years, that he had ever seen a slave auction, buthe added:

"I am suspicious that it is because the thing was a commonplacespectacle, and not an uncommon or impressive one. I do vividly rememberseeing a dozen black men and women chained together lying in a group onthe pavement, waiting shipment to a Southern slave-market. They had thesaddest faces I ever saw. "

It is not surprising that a boy would gather a store of human knowledgeamid such happenings as these. They were wild, disturbing things. Theygot into his dreams and made him fearful when he woke in the middle ofthe night. He did not then regard them as an education. In some vagueway he set them down as warnings, or punishments, designed to give him ataste for a better life. He felt that it was his own conscience thatmade these things torture him. That was his mother's idea, and he had ahigh respect for her moral opinions, also for her courage. Among otherthings, he had seen her one day defy a vicious devil of a Corsican--acommon terror in the town-who was chasing his grown daughter with a heavyrope in his hand, declaring he would wear it out on her. Cautiouscitizens got out of her way, but Jane Clemens opened her door wide to therefugee, and then, instead of rushing in and closing it, spread her armsacross it, barring the way. The man swore and threatened her with therope, but she did not flinch or show any sign of fear. She stood thereand shamed him and derided him and defied him until he gave up the ropeand slunk off, crestfallen and conquered. Any one who could do that musthave a perfect conscience, Sam thought. In the fearsome darkness hewould say his prayers, especially when a thunderstorm was coming, and vowto begin a better life in the morning. He detested Sunday-school as muchas day-school, and once Orion, who was moral and religious, hadthreatened to drag him there by the collar; but as the thunder got louderSam decided that he loved Sunday-school and would go the next Sundaywithout being invited. 

Fortunately there were pleasanter things than these. There were picnicssometimes, and ferry-boat excursions. Once there was a greatFourth-of-July celebration at which it was said a real Revolutionarysoldier was to be present. Some one had discovered him living aloneseven or eight miles in the country. But this feature proved adisappointment; for when the day came and he was triumphantly brought inhe turned out to be a Hessian, and was allowed to walk home. 

The hills and woods around Hannibal where, with his playmates, he roamedalmost at will were never disappointing. There was the cave with itsmarvels; there was Bear Creek, where, after repeated accidents, he hadlearned to swim. It had cost him heavily to learn to swim. He had seentwo playmates drown; also, time and again he had, himself, been draggedashore more dead than alive, once by a slave-girl, another time by aslaveman--Neal Champ, of the Pavey Hotel. In the end he had conquered;he could swim better than any boy in town of his age. 

It was the river that meant more to him than all the rest. Its charm waspermanent. It was the path of adventure, the gateway to the world. Theriver with its islands, its great slow-moving rafts, its marveloussteamboats that were like fairyland, its stately current swinging to thesea! He would sit by it for hours and dream. He would venture out on itin a surreptitiously borrowed boat when he was barely strong enough tolift an oar out of the water. He learned to know all its moods andphases. He felt its kinship. In some occult way he may have known it ashis prototype--that resistless tide of life with its ever-changing sweep, its shifting shores, its depths, its shadows, its gorgeous sunset hues, its solemn and tranquil entrance to the sea. 

His hunger for the life aboard the steamers became a passion. To be eventhe humblest employee of one of those floating enchantments would beenough; to be an officer would be to enter heaven; to be a pilot was tobe a god. 

"You can hardly imagine what it meant, " he reflected once, "to a boy inthose days, shut in as we were, to see those steamboats pass up and down, and never to take a trip on them. "

He had reached the mature age of nine when he could endure this nolonger. One day, when the big packet came down and stopped at Hannibal, he slipped aboard and crept under one of the boats on the upper deck. Presently the signal-bells rang, the steamboat backed away and swung intomidstream; he was really going at last. He crept from beneath the boatand sat looking out over the water and enjoying the scenery. Then itbegan to rain--a terrific downpour. He crept back under the boat, buthis legs were outside, and one of the crew saw him. So he was taken downinto the cabin and at the next stop set ashore. It was the town ofLouisiana, and there were Lampton relatives there who took him home. JaneClemens declared that his father had got to take him in hand; which hedid, doubtless impressing the adventure on him in the usual way. Thesewere all educational things; then there was always the farm, whereentertainment was no longer a matter of girl-plays and swings, with acolored nurse following about, but of manlier sports with his older boycousins, who had a gun and went hunting with the men for squirrels andpartridges by day, for coons and possums by night. Sometimes the littleboy had followed the hunters all night long and returned with themthrough the sparkling and fragrant morning fresh, hungry, and triumphantjust in time for breakfast. 

So it is no wonder that at nine he was no longer "Little Sam, " but SamClemens, quite mature and self-dependent, with a wide knowledge of menand things and a variety of accomplishments. He had even learned tosmoke--a little--out there on the farm, and had tried tobacco-chewing, though that was a failure. He had been stung to this effort by a biggirl at a school which, with his cousin Puss, he sometimes brieflyattended. 

"Do you use terbacker?" the big girl had asked, meaning did he chew it. 

"No, " he said, abashed at the confession. 

"Haw!" she cried to the other scholars; "here's a boy that can't chawterbacker. "

Degraded and ashamed, he tried to correct his fault, but it only made himvery ill; and he did not try again. 

He had also acquired the use of certain strong, expressive words, andused them, sometimes, when his mother was safely distant. He had animpression that she would "skin him alive" if she heard him swear. Hiseducation had doubtful spots in it, but it had provided wisdom. 

He was not a particularly attractive lad. He was not tall for his years, and his head was somewhat too large for his body. He had a "great ruck"of light, sandy hair which he plastered down to keep it from curling;keen blue-gray eyes, and rather large features. Still, he had a fair, delicate complexion, when it was not blackened by grime or tan; a gentle, winning manner; a smile that, with his slow, measured way of speaking, made him a favorite with his companions. He did not speak much, and hismental attainments were not highly regarded; but, for some reason, whenever he did speak every playmate in hearing stopped whatever he wasdoing and listened. Perhaps it would be a plan for a new game or lark;perhaps it was something droll; perhaps it was just a commonplace remarkthat his peculiar drawl made amusing. Whatever it was, they consideredit worth while. His mother always referred to his slow fashion ofspeaking as "Sammy's long talk. " Her own speech was still moredeliberate, but she seemed not to notice it. Henry--a much handsomer ladand regarded as far more promising--did not have it. He was a lovable, obedient little fellow whom the mischievous Sam took delight in teasing. For this and other reasons the latter's punishments were frequent enough, perhaps not always deserved. Sometimes he charged his mother withpartiality. He would say:

"Yes, no matter what it is, I am always the one to get punished"; and hismother would answer:

"Well, Sam, if you didn't deserve it for that, you did for somethingelse. "

Henry Clemens became the Sid of Tom Sawyer, though Henry was in every waya finer character than Sid. His brother Sam always loved him, and foughtfor him oftener than with him. 

With the death of Benjamin Clemens, Henry and Sam were naturally drawnmuch closer together, though Sam could seldom resist the temptation oftormenting Henry. A schoolmate, George Butler (he was a nephew ofGeneral Butler and afterward fought bravely in the Civil War), had alittle blue suit with a leather belt to match, and was the envy of all. Mrs. Clemens finally made Sam and Henry suits of blue cotton velvet, andthe next Sunday, after various services were over, the two saunteredabout, shedding glory for a time, finally going for a stroll in thewoods. They walked along properly enough, at first, then just ahead Samspied the stump of a newly cut tree, and with a wild whooping impulsetook a running leap over it. There were splinters on the stump where thetree had broken away, but he cleared them neatly. Henry wanted to matchthe performance, but was afraid to try, so Sam dared him. He kept daringhim until Henry was goaded to the attempt. He cleared the stump, but thehighest splinters caught the slack of his little blue trousers, and thecloth gave way. He escaped injury, but the precious trousers weredamaged almost beyond repair. Sam, with a boy's heartlessness, wasfairly rolling on the ground with laughter at Henry's appearance. 

"Cotton-tail rabbit!" he shouted. "Cotton-tail rabbit!" while Henry, weeping, set out for home by a circuitous and unfrequented road. Let ushope, if there was punishment for this mishap, that it fell in the properlocality. 

These two brothers were of widely different temperament. Henry, even asa little boy, was sturdy, industrious, and dependable. Sam was volatileand elusive; his industry of an erratic kind. Once his father set him towork with a hatchet to remove some plaster. He hacked at it for a timewell enough, then lay down on the floor of the room and threw his hatchetat such areas of the plaster as were not in easy reach. Henry would haveworked steadily at a task like that until the last bit was removed andthe room swept clean. 

The home incidents in 'Tom Sawyer', most of them, really happened. SamClemens did clod Henry for getting him into trouble about the coloredthread with which he sewed his shirt when he came home from swimming; hedid inveigle a lot of boys into whitewashing, a fence for him; he didgive Pain-killer to Peter, the cat. There was a cholera scare that year, and Pain-killer was regarded as a preventive. Sam had been ordered totake it liberally, and perhaps thought Peter too should be safeguarded. As for escaping punishment for his misdeeds in the manner described inthat book, this was a daily matter, and the methods adapted themselves tothe conditions. In the introduction to Tom Sawyer Mark Twain confessesto the general truth of the history, and to the reality of itscharacters. "Huck Finn was drawn from life, " he tells us. "Tom Sawyeralso, but not from an individual--he is a combination of thecharacteristics of three boys whom I knew. "

The three boys were--himself, chiefly, and in a lesser degree John Briggsand Will Bowen. John Briggs was also the original of Joe Harper in thatbook. As for Huck Finn, his original was Tom Blankenship, neitherelaborated nor qualified. 

There were several of the Blankenships: there was old Ben, the father, who had succeeded "General" Gains as the town drunkard; young Ben, theeldest son--a hard case with certain good traits; and Tom--that is tosay, Huck--who was just as he is described in Tom Sawyer: a ruin of rags, a river-rat, an irresponsible bit of human drift, kind of heart andpossessing that priceless boon, absolute unaccountability of conduct toany living soul. He could came and go as he chose; he never had to workor go to school; he could do all things, good or bad, that the other boyslonged to do and were forbidden. He represented to them the veryembodiment of liberty, and his general knowledge of important matters, such as fishing, hunting, trapping, and all manner of signs and spellsand hoodoos and incantations, made him immensely valuable as a companion. The fact that his society was prohibited gave it a vastly added charm. 

The Blankenships picked up a precarious living fishing and hunting, andlived at first in a miserable house of bark, under a tree, but latermoved into quite a pretentious building back of the new Clemens home onHill Street. It was really an old barn of a place--poor and ramshackleeven then; but now, more than sixty years later, a part of it is stillstanding. The siding of the part that stands is of black walnut, whichmust have been very plentiful in that long-ago time. Old drunken BenBlankenship never dreamed that pieces of his house would be carried offas relics because of the literary fame of his son Tom--a fame founded onirresponsibility and inconsequence. Orion Clemens, who was concernedwith missionary work about this time, undertook to improve theBlankenships spiritually. Sam adopted them, outright, and took them tohis heart. He was likely to be there at any hour of the day, and he andTom had cat-call signals at night which would bring him out on the backsingle-story roof, and down a little arbor and flight of steps, to thegroup of boon companions which, besides Tom, included John Briggs, theBowen boys, Will Pitts, and one or two other congenial spirits. Theywere not vicious boys; they were not really bad boys; they were onlymischievous, fun-loving boys-thoughtless, and rather disregardful of thecomforts and the rights of others. 

XII

TOM SAWYER'S BAND

They ranged from Holliday's Hill on the north to the Cave on the south, and over the fields and through all the woods about. They navigated theriver from Turtle Island to Glasscock's Island (now Pearl, or TomSawyer's Island), and far below; they penetrated the wilderness of theIllinois shore. They could run like wild turkeys and swim like ducks;they could handle a boat as if born in one. No orchard or melon patchwas entirely safe from them; no dog or slave patrol so vigilant that theydid not sooner or later elude it. They borrowed boats when their ownerswere not present. Once when they found this too much trouble, theydecided to own a boat, and one Sunday gave a certain borrowed craft acoat of red paint (formerly it had been green), and secluded it for aseason up Bear Creek. They borrowed the paint also, and the brush, though they carefully returned these the same evening about nightfall, sothe painter could have them Monday morning. Tom Blankenship rigged up asail for the new craft, and Sam Clemens named it Cecilia, after whichthey didn't need to borrow boats any more, though the owner of it did;and he sometimes used to observe as he saw it pass that, if it had beenany other color but red, he would have sworn it was his. 

Some of their expeditions were innocent enough. They often cruised up toTurtle Island, about two miles above Hannibal, and spent the dayfeasting. You could have loaded a car with turtles and their eggs upthere, and there were quantities of mussels and plenty of fish. Fishingand swimming were their chief pastimes, with general marauding foradventure. Where the railroad-bridge now ends on the Missouri side wastheir favorite swimming-hole--that and along Bear Creek, a secludedlimpid water with special interests of its own. Sometimes at eveningthey swam across to Glasscock's Island--the rendezvous of Tom Sawyer's"Black Avengers" and the hiding-place of Huck and Nigger Jim; then, whenthey had frolicked on the sand-bar at the head of the island for an houror more, they would swim back in the dusk, a distance of half a mile, breasting the strong, steady Mississippi current without exhaustion orfear. They could swim all day, likely enough, those graceless youngscamps. Once--though this was considerably later, when he was sixteen--Sam Clemens swam across to the Illinois side, and then turned and swamback again without landing, a distance of at least two miles, as he hadto go. He was seized with a cramp on the return trip. His legs becameuseless, and he was obliged to make the remaining distance with his arms. It was a hardy life they led, and it is not recorded that they ever didany serious damage, though they narrowly missed it sometimes. 

One of their Sunday pastimes was to climb Holliday's Hill and roll downbig stones, to frighten the people who were driving to church. Holliday'sHill above the road was steep; a stone once started would go plunging andleaping down and bound across the road with the deadly swiftness of atwelve-inch shell. The boys would get a stone poised, then wait untilthey saw a team approaching, and, calculating the distance, would give ita start. Dropping down behind the bushes, they would watch the dramaticeffect upon the church-goers as the great missile shot across the road afew yards before them. This was Homeric sport, but they carried it toofar. Stones that had a habit of getting loose so numerously on Sundaysand so rarely on other days invited suspicion, and the "Patterollers"(river patrol--a kind of police of those days) were put on the watch. Sothe boys found other diversions until the Patterollers did not watch anymore; then they planned a grand coup that would eclipse anything beforeattempted in the stone-rolling line. 

A rock about the size of an omnibus was lying up there, in a goodposition to go down hill, once, started. They decided it would be aglorious thing to see that great boulder go smashing down, a hundredyards or so in front of some unsuspecting and peaceful-mindedchurch-goer. Quarrymen were getting out rock not far away, and lefttheir picks and shovels over Sundays. The boys borrowed these, and wentto work to undermine the big stone. It was a heavier job than they hadcounted on, but they worked faithfully, Sunday after Sunday. If theirparents had wanted them to work like that, they would have thought theywere being killed. 

Finally one Sunday, while they were digging, it suddenly got loose andstarted down. They were not quite ready for it. Nobody was coming butan old colored man in a cart, so it was going to be wasted. It was notquite wasted, however. They had planned for a thrilling result; andthere was thrill enough while it lasted. In the first place, the stonenearly caught Will Bowen when it started. John Briggs had just thatmoment quit digging and handed Will the pick. Will was about to stepinto the excavation when Sam Clemens, who was already there, leaped outwith a yell:

"Look out, boys, she's coming!"

She came. The huge stone kept to the ground at first, then, gathering awild momentum, it went bounding into the air. About half-way down thehill it struck a tree several inches through and cut it clean off. Thisturned its course a little, and the negro in the cart, who heard thenoise, saw it come crashing in his direction and made a wild effort towhip up his horse. It was also headed toward a cooper-shop across theroad. The boys watched it with growing interest. It made longer leapswith every bound, and whenever it struck the fragments the dust wouldfly. They were certain it would demolish the negro and destroy thecooper-shop. The shop was empty, it being Sunday, but the rest of thecatastrophe would invite close investigation, with results. They wantedto fly, but they could not move until they saw the rock land. It wasmaking mighty leaps now, and the terrified negro had managed to getdirectly in its path. They stood holding their breath, their mouthsopen. Then suddenly they could hardly believe their eyes; the boulderstruck a projection a distance above the road, and with a mighty boundsailed clear over the negro and his mule and landed in the soft dirtbeyond-only a fragment striking the shop, damaging but not wrecking it. Half buried in the ground, that boulder lay there for nearly forty years;then it was blasted up for milling purposes. It was the last rock theboys ever rolled down. They began to suspect that the sport was notaltogether safe. 

Sometimes the boys needed money, which was not easy to get in those days. On one occasion of this sort, Tom Blankenship had the skin of a coon hehad captured, which represented the only capital in the crowd. AtSelms's store on Wild Cat corner the coonskin would bring ten cents, butthat was not enough. They arranged a plan which would make it pay a gooddeal more than that. Selins's window was open, it being summer-time, andhis pile of pelts was pretty handy. Huck--that is to say, Tom--went inthe front door and sold the skin for ten cents to Selms, who tossed itback on the pile. Tom came back with the money and after a reasonableperiod went around to the open window, crawled in, got the coonskin, andsold it to Selms again. He did this several times that afternoon; thenJohn Pierce, Selins's clerk, said:

"Look here, Selms, there is something wrong about this. That boy hasbeen selling us coonskins all the afternoon. "

Selms went to his pile of pelts. There were several sheepskins and somecowhides, but only one coonskin--the one he had that moment bought. Selmshimself used to tell this story as a great joke. 

Perhaps it is not adding to Mark Twain's reputation to say that the boySam Clemens--a pretty small boy, a good deal less than twelve at thistime--was the leader of this unhallowed band; yet any other record wouldbe less than historic. If the band had a leader, it was he. They werealways ready to listen to him--they would even stop fishing to do that--and to follow his projects. They looked to him for ideas andorganization, whether the undertaking was to be real or make-believe. When they played "Bandit" or "Pirate" or "Indian, " Sam Clemens was alwayschief; when they became real raiders it is recorded that he was no lessdistinguished. Like Tom Sawyer, he loved the glare and trappings ofleadership. When the Christian Sons of Temperance came along with aregalia, and a red sash that carried with it rank and the privilege ofinventing pass-words, the gaud of these things got into his eyes, and hegave up smoking (which he did rather gingerly) and swearing (which he didonly under heavy excitement), also liquor (though he had never tasted ityet), and marched with the newly washed and pure in heart for a fullmonth--a month of splendid leadership and servitude. Then even the redsash could not hold him in bondage. He looked up Tom Blankenship andsaid:

"Say, Tom, I'm blamed tired of this! Let's go somewhere and smoke!"Which must have been a good deal of a sacrifice, for the uniform was aprecious thing. 

Limelight and the center of the stage was a passion of Sam Clemens'sboyhood, a love of the spectacular that never wholly died. It seemsalmost a pity that in those far-off barefoot old days he could not havelooked down the years to a time when, with the world at his feet, venerable Oxford should clothe him in a scarlet gown. 

He could not by any chance have dreamed of that stately honor. Hisambitions did not lie in the direction of mental achievement. It is truethat now and then, on Friday at school, he read a composition, one ofwhich--a personal burlesque on certain older boys--came near resulting inbodily damage. But any literary ambition he may have had in those dayswas a fleeting thing. His permanent dream was to be a pirate, or apilot, or a bandit, or a trapper-scout; something gorgeous and active, where his word--his nod, even--constituted sufficient law. The riverkept the pilot ambition always fresh, and the cave supplied a backgroundfor those other things. 

The cave was an enduring and substantial joy. It was a real cave, notmerely a hole, but a subterranean marvel of deep passages and vaultedchambers that led away into bluffs and far down into the earth's blacksilences, even below the river, some said. For Sam Clemens the cave hada fascination that never faded. Other localities and diversions mightpall, but any mention of the cave found him always eager and ready forthe three-mile walk or pull that brought them to its mystic door. Withits long corridors, its royal chambers hung with stalactites, its remotehiding-places, its possibilities as the home of a gallant outlaw band, itcontained everything that a romantic boy could love or long for. In TomSawyer Indian Joe dies in the cave. He did not die there in real life, but was lost there once, and was living on bats when they found him. Hewas a dissolute reprobate, and when, one night, he did die there came upa thunder-storm so terrific that Sam Clemens at home and in bed wascertain that Satan had come in person for the half-breed's wicked soul. He covered his head and said his prayers industriously, in the fear thatthe evil one might conclude to save another trip by taking him along, too. 

The treasure-digging adventure in the book had a foundation in fact. There was a tradition concerning some French trappers who long before hadestablished a trading-post two miles above Hannibal, on what is calledthe "bay. " It is said that, while one of these trappers was out hunting, Indians made a raid on the post and massacred the others. The hunter onreturning found his comrades killed and scalped, but the Indians hadfailed to find the treasure which was buried in a chest. He left itthere, swam across to Illinois, and made his way to St. Louis, where hetold of the massacre and the burial of the chest of gold. Then hestarted to raise a party to go back for it, but was taken sick and died. Later some men came up from St. Louis looking for the chest. They didnot find it, but they told the circumstances, and afterward a good manypeople tried to find the gold. 

Tom Blankenship one morning came to Sam Clemens and John Briggs and saidhe was going to dig up the treasure. He said he had dreamed just whereit was, and said if they would go with him and dig he would divide up. The boys had great faith in dreams, especially Tom's dreams. Tom'sunlimited freedom gave him a large importance in their eyes. The dreamsof a boy like that were pretty sure to mean something. They followed Tomto the place with some shovels and a pick, and he showed them where todig. Then he sat down under the shade of a papaw-tree and gave orders. 

They dug nearly all day. Now and then they stopped to rest, and maybe towonder a little why Tom didn't dig some himself; but, of course, he haddone the dreaming, which entitled him to an equal share. 

They did not find it that day, and when they went back next morning theytook two long iron rods; these they would push and drive into the grounduntil they struck something hard. Then they would dig down to see whatit was, but it never turned out to be money. That night the boysdeclared they would not dig any more. But Tom had another dream. Hedreamed the gold was exactly under the little papaw-tree. This soundedso circumstantial that they went back and dug another day. It was hotweather too, August, and that night they were nearly dead. Even Tom gaveit up, then. He said there was something about the way they dug, but henever offered to do any digging himself. 

This differs considerably from the digging incident in the book, but itgives us an idea of the respect the boys had for the ragamuffin originalof Huckleberry Finn. --[Much of the detail in this chapter was furnishedto the writer by John Briggs shortly before his death in 1907. ]--TomBlankenship's brother, Ben, was also drawn upon for that creation, atleast so far as one important phase of Huck's character is concerned. Hewas considerably older, as well as more disreputable, than Tom. He wasinclined to torment the boys by tying knots in their clothes when theywent swimming, or by throwing mud at them when they wanted to come out, and they had no deep love for him. But somewhere in Ben Blankenshipthere was a fine generous strain of humanity that provided Mark Twainwith that immortal episode in the story of Huck Finn--in sheltering theNigger Jim. 

This is the real story:

A slave ran off from Monroe County, Missouri, and got across the riverinto Illinois. Ben used to fish and hunt over there in the swamps, andone day found him. It was considered a most worthy act in those days toreturn a runaway slave; in fact, it was a crime not to do it. Besides, there was for this one a reward of fifty dollars, a fortune to raggedoutcast Ben Blankenship. That money and the honor he could acquire musthave been tempting to the waif, but it did not outweigh his humansympathy. Instead of giving him up and claiming the reward, Ben kept therunaway over there in the marshes all summer. The negro would fish andBen would carry him scraps of other food. Then, by and by, it leakedout. Some wood-choppers went on a hunt for the fugitive, and chased himto what was called "Bird Slough. " There trying to cross a drift he wasdrowned. 

In the book, the author makes Huck's struggle a psychological one betweenconscience and the law, on one side, and sympathy on the other. With BenBlankenship the struggle--if there was a struggle--was probably betweensympathy and cupidity. He would care very little for conscience andstill less for law. His sympathy with the runaway, however, would belarge and elemental, and it must have been very large to offset the lureof that reward. 

There was a gruesome sequel to this incident. Some days following thedrowning of the runaway, Sam Clemens, John Briggs, and the Bowen boyswent to the spot and were pushing the drift about, when suddenly thenegro rose before them, straight and terrible, about half his length outof the water. He had gone down feet foremost, and the loosened drift hadreleased him. The boys did not stop to investigate. They thought he wasafter them and flew in wild terror, never stopping until they reachedhuman habitation. 

How many gruesome experiences there appear to have been in those earlydays! In 'The Innocents Abroad' Mark Twain tells of the murdered man hesaw one night in his father's office. The man's name was McFarlane. Hehad been stabbed that day in the old Hudson-McFarlane feud and carried inthere to die. Sam Clemens and John Briggs had run away from school andhad been sky larking all that day, and knew nothing of the affair. Samdecided that his father's office was safer for him than to face hismother, who was probably sitting up, waiting. He tells us how he lay onthe lounge, and how a shape on the floor gradually resolved itself intothe outlines of a man; how a square of moonlight from the windowapproached it and gradually revealed the dead face and the ghastlystabbed breast. 

"I went out of there, " he says. "I do not say that I went away in anysort of a hurry, but I simply went; that is sufficient. I went out ofthe window, and I carried the sash along with me. I did not need thesash, but it was handier to take it than to, leave it, and so I took it. I was not scared, but I was considerably agitated. "

He was not yet twelve, for his father was no longer alive when the boyreached that age. Certainly these were disturbing, haunting things. Thenthere was the case of the drunken tramp in the calaboose to whom the boyskind-heartedly enough carried food and tobacco. Sam Clemens spent someof his precious money to buy the tramp a box of Lucifer matches--a brandnew invention then, scarce and high. The tramp started a fire with thematches and burned down the calaboose, himself in it. For weeks the boywas tortured, awake and in his dreams, by the thought that if he had notcarried the man the matches the tragedy could not have happened. Remorsewas always Samuel Clemens's surest punishment. To his last days on earthhe never outgrew its pangs. 

What a number of things crowded themselves into a few brief years! It isnot easy to curtail these boyhood adventures of Sam Clemens and hisscapegrace friends, but one might go on indefinitely with their maddoings. They were an unpromising lot. Ministers and other sober-mindedcitizens freely prophesied sudden and violent ends for them, andconsidered them hardly worth praying for. They must have proven adisappointing lot to those prophets. The Bowen boys became fineriver-pilots; Will Pitts was in due time a leading merchant and bankdirector; John Briggs grew into a well-to-do and highly respected farmer;even Huck Finn--that is to say, Tom Blankenship--is reputed to haveranked as an honored citizen and justice of the peace in a Western town. But in those days they were a riotous, fun-loving band with littlerespect for order and even less for ordinance. 

XIII

THE GENTLER SIDE

His associations were not all of that lawless breed. At his school (hehad sampled several places of learning, and was now at Mr. Cross's on theSquare) were a number of less adventurous, even if not intrinsicallybetter playmates. There was George Robards, the Latin scholar, and John, his brother, a handsome boy, who rode away at last with his father intothe sunset, to California, his golden curls flying in the wind. Andthere was Jimmy McDaniel, a kind-hearted boy whose company was worthwhile, because his father was a confectioner, and he used to bring candyand cake to school. Also there was Buck Brown, a rival speller, and JohnMeredith, the doctor's son, and John Garth, who was one day to marrylittle Helen Kercheval, and in the end would be remembered and honoredwith a beautiful memorial building not far from the site of the oldschool. 

Furthermore, there were a good many girls. Tom Sawyer had animpressionable heart, and Sam Clemens no less so. There was BettieOrmsley, and Artemisia Briggs, and Jennie Brady; also Mary Miller, whowas nearly twice his age and gave him his first broken heart. 

"I believe I was as miserable as a grown man could be, " he said once, remembering. 

Tom Sawyer had heart sorrows too, and we may imagine that his emotions atsuch times were the emotions of Sam Clemens, say at the age of ten. 

But, as Tom Sawyer had one faithful sweetheart, so did he. They were oneand the same. Becky Thatcher in the book was Laura Hawkins in reality. The acquaintance of these two had begun when the Hawkins family movedinto the Virginia house on the corner of Hill and Main streets. --[TheHawkins family in real life bore no resemblance to the family of thatname in The Gilded Age. Judge Hawkins of The Gilded Age, as alreadynoted, was John Clemens. Mark Twain used the name Hawkins, also the nameof his boyhood sweetheart, Laura, merely for old times' sake, and becausein portraying the childhood of Laura Hawkins he had a picture of the realLaura in his mind. ]--The Clemens family was then in the new home acrossthe way, and the children were soon acquainted. The boy could be tenderand kind, and was always gentle in his treatment of the other sex. Theyvisited back and forth, especially around the new house, where there werenice pieces of boards and bricks for play-houses. So they played"keeping house, " and if they did not always agree well, since thebeginning of the world sweethearts have not always agreed, even inArcady. Once when they were building a house--and there may have beensome difference of opinion as to its architecture--the boy happened tolet a brick fall on the little girl's finger. If there had been anydisagreement it vanished instantly with that misfortune. He tried tocomfort her and soothe the pain; then he wept with her and suffered mostof the two, no doubt. So, you see, he was just a little boy, after all, even though he was already chief of a red-handed band, the "BlackAvengers of the Spanish Main. "

He was always a tender-hearted lad. He would never abuse an animal, unless, as in the Pain-killer incident, his tendency to pranking ran awaywith him. He had indeed a genuine passion for cats; summers when he wentto the farm he never failed to take his cat in a basket. When he ate, itsat in a chair beside him at the table. His sympathy included inanimatethings as well. He loved flowers--not as the embryo botanist orgardener, but as a personal friend. He pitied the dead leaf and themurmuring dried weed of November because their brief lives were ended, and they would never know the summer again, or grow glad with anotherspring. His heart went out to them; to the river and the sky, the sunlitmeadow and the drifted hill. That his observation of all nature wasminute and accurate is shown everywhere in his writing; but it was neverthe observation of a young naturalist it was the subconscious observationof sympathetic love. 

We are wandering away from his school-days. They were brief enough andcame rapidly to an end. They will not hold us long. Undoubtedly TomSawyer's distaste for school and his excuses for staying at home--usuallysome pretended illness--have ample foundation in the boyhood of SamClemens. His mother punished him and pleaded with him, alternately. Hedetested school as he detested nothing else on earth, even going tochurch. "Church ain't worth shucks, " said Tom Sawyer, but it was betterthan school. 

As already noted, the school of Mr. Cross stood in or near what is nowthe Square in Hannibal. The Square was only a grove then, grown up withplum, hazel, and vine--a rare place for children. At recess and the noonhour the children climbed trees, gathered flowers, and swung ingrape-vine swings. There was a spelling-bee every Friday afternoon, forSam the only endurable event of the school exercises. He could hold thefloor at spelling longer than Buck Brown. This was spectacular andshowy; it invited compliments even from Mr. Cross, whose name must havebeen handed down by angels, it fitted him so well. One day Sam Clemenswrote on his slate:

 Cross by name and cross by nature Cross jumped over an Irish potato. 

He showed this to John Briggs, who considered it a stroke of genius. Heurged the author to write it on the board at noon, but the poet'sambition did not go so far. 

"Oh, pshaw!" said John. "I wouldn't be afraid to do it. 

"I dare you to do it, " said Sam. 

John Briggs never took a dare, and at noon, when Mr. Cross was at home atdinner, he wrote flamingly the descriptive couplet. When the teacherreturned and "books" were called he looked steadily at John Briggs. Hehad recognized the penmanship. 

"Did you do that?" he asked, ominously. 

It was a time for truth. 

"Yes, sir, " said John. 

"Come here!" And John came, and paid for his exploitation of geniusheavily. Sam Clemens expected that the next call would be for "author, "but for some reason the investigation ended there. It was unusual forhim to escape. His back generally kept fairly warm from one "frailing"to the next. 

His rewards were not all of a punitive nature. There were two medals inthe school, one for spelling, the other for amiability. They wereawarded once a week, and the holders wore them about the neckconspicuously, and were envied accordingly. John Robards--he of thegolden curls--wore almost continuously the medal for amiability, whileSam Clemens had a mortgage on the medal for spelling. Sometimes theytraded, to see how it would seem, but the master discouraged thispractice by taking the medals away from them for the remainder of theweek. Once Sam Clemens lost the medal by leaving the first "r" out ofFebruary. He could have spelled it backward, if necessary; but LauraHawkins was the only one on the floor against him, and he was a gallantboy. 

The picture of that school as presented in the book written thirty yearslater is faithful, we may believe, and the central figure is atender-hearted, romantic, devil-may-care lad, loathing application andlonging only for freedom. It was a boon which would come to him soonereven than he had dreamed. 

XIV

THE PASSING OF JOHN CLEMENS

Judge Clemens, who time and again had wrecked or crippled his fortune bydevices more or less unusual, now adopted the one unfailing method ofachieving disaster. He endorsed a large note, for a man of good repute, and the payment of it swept him clean: home, property, everythingvanished again. The St. Louis cousin took over the home and agreed tolet the family occupy it on payment of a small interest; but after anattempt at housekeeping with a few scanty furnishings and Pamela's piano--all that had been saved from the wreck--they moved across the streetinto a portion of the Virginia house, then occupied by a Dr. Grant. TheGrants proposed that the Clemens family move over and board them, awelcome arrangement enough at this time. 

Judge Clemens had still a hope left. The clerkship of the SurrogateCourt was soon to be filled by election. It was an importantremunerative office, and he was regarded as the favorite candidate forthe position. His disaster had aroused general sympathy, and hisnomination and election were considered sure. He took no chances; hemade a canvass on horseback from house to house, often riding throughrain and the chill of fall, acquiring a cough which was hard to overcome. He was elected by a heavy majority, and it was believed he could hold theoffice as long as he chose. There seemed no further need of worry. Assoon as he was installed in office they would live in style becomingtheir social position. About the end of February he rode to Palmyra tobe sworn in. Returning he was drenched by a storm of rain and sleet, arriving at last half frozen. His system was in no condition to resistsuch a shock. Pneumonia followed; physicians came with torments ofplasters and allopathic dosings that brought no relief. Orion returnedfrom St. Louis to assist in caring for him, and sat by his bed, encouraging him and reading to him, but it was evident that he grew dailyweaker. Now and then he became cheerful and spoke of the Tennessee landas the seed of a vast fortune that must surely flower at last. Heuttered no regrets, no complaints. Once only he said:

"I believe if I had stayed in Tennessee I might have been worth twentythousand dollars to-day. "

On the morning of the 24th of March, 1847, it was evident that he couldnot live many hours. He was very weak. When he spoke, now and then, itwas of the land. He said it would soon make them all rich and happy. 

"Cling to the land, " he whispered. "Cling to the land, and wait. Letnothing beguile it away from you. "

A little later he beckoned to Pamela, now a lovely girl of nineteen, and, putting his arm about her neck, kissed her for the first time in years. 

"Let me die, " he said. 

He never spoke after that. A little more, and the sad, weary life thathad lasted less than forty-nine years was ended: A dreamer and amoralist, an upright man honored by all, he had never been a financier. He ended life with less than he had begun. 

XV

A YOUNG BEN FRANKLIN

For a third time death had entered the Clemens home: not only had itbrought grief now, but it had banished the light of new fortune from thevery threshold. The disaster seemed complete. 

The children were dazed. Judge Clemens had been a distant, reserved man, but they had loved him, each in his own way, and they had honored hisuprightness and nobility of purpose. Mrs. Clemens confided to a neighborthat, in spite of his manner, her husband had been always warm-hearted, with a deep affection for his family. They remembered that he had neverreturned from a journey without bringing each one some present, howevertrifling. Orion, looking out of his window next morning, saw old AbramKurtz, and heard him laugh. He wondered how anybody could still laugh. 

The boy Sam was fairly broken down. Remorse, which always dealt with himunsparingly, laid a heavy hand on him now. Wildness, disobedience, indifference to his father's wishes, all were remembered; a hundredthings, in themselves trifling, became ghastly and heart-wringing in theknowledge that they could never be undone. Seeing his grief, his mothertook him by the hand and led him into the room where his father lay. 

"It is all right, Sammy, " she said. "What's done is done, and it doesnot matter to him any more; but here by the side of him now I want you topromise me----"

He turned, his eyes streaming with tears, and flung himself into herarms. 

"I will promise anything, " he sobbed, "if you won't make me go to school!Anything!"

His mother held him for a moment, thinking, then she said:

"No, Sammy; you need not go to school any more. Only promise me to be abetter boy. Promise not to break my heart. "

So he promised her to be a faithful and industrious man, and upright, like his father. His mother was satisfied with that. The sense of honorand justice was already strong within him. To him a promise was aserious matter at any time; made under conditions like these it would beheld sacred. 

That night--it was after the funeral--his tendency to somnambulismmanifested itself. His mother and sister, who were sleeping together, saw the door open and a form in white enter. Naturally nervous at such atime, and living in a day of almost universal superstition, they wereterrified and covered their heads. Presently a hand was laid on thecoverlet, first at the foot, then at the head of the bed. A thoughtstruck Mrs. Clemens:

"Sam!" she said. 

He answered, but he was sound asleep and fell to the floor. He had risenand thrown a sheet around him in his dreams. He walked in his sleepseveral nights in succession after that. Then he slept more soundly. 

Orion returned to St. Louis. He was a very good book and job printer bythis time and received a salary of ten dollars a week (high wages inthose frugal days), of which he sent three dollars weekly to the family. Pamela, who had acquired a considerable knowledge of the piano andguitar, went to the town of Paris, in Monroe County, about fifty milesaway, and taught a class of music pupils, contributing whatever remainedafter paying for her board and clothing to the family fund. It was ahard task for the girl, for she was timid and not over-strong; but shewas resolute and patient, and won success. Pamela Clemens was a noblecharacter and deserves a fuller history than can be afforded in thiswork. 

Mrs. Clemens and her son Samuel now had a sober talk, and, realizing thatthe printing trade offered opportunity for acquiring further education aswell as a livelihood, they agreed that he should be apprenticed to JosephP. Ament, who had lately moved from Palmyra to Hannibal and bought aweekly Democrat paper, the Missouri Courier. The apprentice terms werenot over-liberal. They were the usual thing for that time: board andclothes--"more board than clothes, and not much of either, " Mark Twainused to say. 

"I was supposed to get two suits of clothes a year, like a nigger, but Ididn't get them. I got one suit and took the rest out in Ament's oldgarments, which didn't fit me in any noticeable way. I was only abouthalf as big as he was, and when I had on one of his shirts I felt as if Ihad on a circus tent. I had to turn the trousers up to my ears to makethem short enough. "

There was another apprentice, a young fellow of about eighteen, namedWales McCormick, a devilish fellow and a giant. Ament's clothes were toosmall for Wales, but he had to wear them, and Sam Clemens and WalesMcCormick together, fitted out with Ament's clothes, must have been apicturesque pair. There was also, for a time, a boy named Ralph; but heappears to have presented no features of a striking sort, and the memoryof him has become dim. 

The apprentices ate in the kitchen at first, served by the old slave-cookand her handsome mulatto daughter; but those printer's "devils" made itso lively there that in due time they were promoted to the family table, where they sat with Mr. And Mrs. Ament and the one journeyman, PetMcMurry--a name that in itself was an inspiration. What those youngscamps did not already know Pet McMurry could teach them. Sam Clemenshad promised to be a good boy, and he was, by the standards of boyhood. He was industrious, regular at his work, quick to learn, kind, andtruthful. Angels could hardly be more than that in a printing-office;but when food was scarce even an angel--a young printer angel--couldhardly resist slipping down the cellar stairs at night for raw potatoes, onions, and apples which they carried into the office, where the boysslept on a pallet on the floor, and this forage they cooked on the officestove. Wales especially had a way of cooking a potato that his associatenever forgot. 

It is unfortunate that no photographic portrait has been preserved of SamClemens at this period. But we may imagine him from a letter which, longyears after, Pet McMurry wrote to Mark Twain. He said:

 If your memory extends so far back, you will recall a little sandy- haired boy--[The color of Mark Twain's hair in early life has been variously referred to as red, black, and brown. It was, in fact, as stated by McMurry, "sandy" in boyhood, deepening later to that rich, mahogany tone known as auburn. ]--of nearly a quarter of a century ago, in the printing-office at Hannibal, over the Brittingham drugstore, mounted upon a little box at the case, pulling away at a huge cigar or a diminutive pipe, who used to love to sing so well the expression of the poor drunken man who was supposed to have fallen by the wayside: "If ever I get up again, I'll stay up--if I kin. " . . . Do you recollect any of the serious conflicts that mirth-loving brain of yours used to get you into with that diminutive creature Wales McCormick--how you used to call upon me to hold your cigar or pipe, whilst you went entirely through him?

This is good testimony, without doubt. When he had been with Amentlittle more than a year Sam had become office favorite and chief standby. Whatever required intelligence and care and imagination was given to SamClemens. He could set type as accurately and almost as rapidly as PetMcMurry; he could wash up the forms a good deal better than Pet; and hecould run the job-press to the tune of "Annie Laurie" or "Along the Beachat Rockaway, " without missing a stroke or losing a finger. Sometimes, atodd moments, he would "set up" one of the popular songs or some favoritepoem like "The Blackberry Girl, " and of these he sent copies printed oncotton, even on scraps of silk, to favorite girl friends; also to PussQuarles, on his uncle's farm, where he seldom went now, because he wasreally grown up, associating with men and doing a man's work. He hadcharge of the circulation--which is to say, he carried the papers. Duringthe last year of the Mexican War, when a telegraph-wire found its wayacross the Mississippi to Hannibal--a long sagging span, that for somereason did not break of its own weight--he was given charge of the extraswith news from the front; and the burning importance of his mission, thebringing of news hot from the field of battle, spurred him to endeavorsthat won plaudits and success. 

He became a sort of subeditor. When the forms of the paper were ready toclose and Ament was needed to supply more matter, it was Sam who wasdelegated to find that rather uncertain and elusive person and labor withhim until the required copy was produced. Thus it was he saw literaturein the making. 

It is not believed that Sam had any writing ambitions of his own. Hischief desire was to be an all-round journeyman printer like Pet McMurry;to drift up and down the world in Pet's untrammeled fashion; to see allthat Pet had seen and a number of things which Pet appeared to haveoverlooked. He varied on occasion from this ambition. When the firstnegro minstrel show visited Hannibal and had gone, he yearned for a briefperiod to be a magnificent "middle man" or even the "end-man" of thatcombination; when the circus came and went, he dreamed of the day when, acapering frescoed clown, he would set crowded tiers of spectatorsguffawing at his humor; when the traveling hypnotist arrived, hevolunteered as a subject, and amazed the audience by the marvel of hisperformance. 

In later life he claimed that he had not been hypnotized in any degree, but had been pretending throughout--a statement always denied by hismother and his brother Orion. This dispute was never settled, and nevercould be. Sam Clemens's tendency to somnambulism would seem to suggestthat he really might have taken on a hypnotic condition, while hisconsummate skill as an actor, then and always, and his early fondness ofexhibition and a joke, would make it not unlikely that he was merely"showing off" and having his fun. He could follow the dictates of avivid imagination and could be as outrageous as he chose withoutincurring responsibility of any sort. But there was a penalty: he mustallow pins and needles to be thrust into his flesh and suffer thesetortures without showing discomfort to the spectators. It is difficultto believe that any boy, however great his exhibitory passion, couldpermit, in the full possession of his sensibilities, a needle to bethrust deeply into his flesh without manifestations of a most unmesmericsort. The conclusion seems warranted that he began by pretending, butthat at times he was at least under semi-mesmeric control. At allevents, he enjoyed a week of dazzling triumph, though in the end heconcluded to stick to printing as a trade. 

We have said that he was a rapid learner and a neat workman. At Ament'she generally had a daily task, either of composition or press-work, afterwhich he was free. When he had got the hang of his work he was usuallydone by three in the afternoon; then away to the river or the cave, as inthe old days, sometimes with his boy friends, sometimes with LauraHawkins gathering wild columbine on that high cliff overlooking theriver, Lover's Leap. 

He was becoming quite a beau, attending parties on occasion, whereold-fashioned games--Forfeits, Ring-around-a-Rosy, Dusty Miller, and thelike--were regarded as rare amusements. He was a favorite with girls ofhis own age. He was always good-natured, though he played jokes on them, too, and was often a severe trial. He was with Laura Hawkins more thanthe others, usually her escort. On Saturday afternoons in winter hecarried her skates to Bear Creek and helped her to put them on. Afterwhich they skated "partners, " holding hands tightly, and were a likelypair of children, no doubt. In The Gilded Age Laura Hawkins at twelve ispictured "with her dainty hands propped into the ribbon-bordered pocketsof her apron . . . A vision to warm the coldest heart and bless andcheer the saddest. " The author had the real Laura of his childhood inhis mind when he wrote that, though the story itself bears no resemblanceto her life. 

They were never really sweethearts, those two. They were good friendsand comrades. Sometimes he brought her magazines--exchanges from theprinting--office--Godey's and others. These were a treat, for suchthings were scarce enough. He cared little for reading, himself, beyonda few exciting tales, though the putting into type of a good deal ofmiscellaneous matter had beyond doubt developed in him a taste forgeneral knowledge. It needed only to be awakened. 

XVI

THE TURNING-POINT

There came into his life just at this period one of those seeminglytrifling incidents which, viewed in retrospect, assume pivotalproportions. He was on his way from the office to his home one afternoonwhen he saw flying along the pavement a square of paper, a leaf from abook. At an earlier time he would not have bothered with it at all, butany printed page had acquired a professional interest for him now. Hecaught the flying scrap and examined it. It was a leaf from some historyof Joan of Arc. The "maid" was described in the cage at Rouen, in thefortress, and the two ruffian English soldiers had stolen her clothes. There was a brief description and a good deal of dialogue--her reproachesand their ribald replies. 

He had never heard of the subject before. He had never read any history. When he wanted to know any fact he asked Henry, who read everythingobtainable. Now, however, there arose within him a deep compassion forthe gentle Maid of Orleans, a burning resentment toward her captors, apowerful and indestructible interest in her sad history. It was aninterest that would grow steadily for more than half a lifetime andculminate at last in that crowning work, the Recollections, the lovelieststory ever told of the martyred girl. 

The incident meant even more than that: it meant the awakening of hisinterest in all history--the world's story in its many phases--a passionwhich became the largest feature of his intellectual life and remainedwith him until his very last day on earth. From the moment when thatfluttering leaf was blown into his hands his career as one of the world'smentally elect was assured. It gave him his cue--the first word of apart in the human drama. It crystallized suddenly within him sympathywith the oppressed, rebellion against tyranny and treachery, scorn forthe divine rights of kings. A few months before he died he wrote a paperon "The Turning-point of My Life. " For some reason he did not mentionthis incident. Yet if there was a turning-point in his life, he reachedit that bleak afternoon on the streets of Hannibal when a stray leaf fromanother life was blown into his hands. 

He read hungrily now everything he could find relating to the Frenchwars, and to Joan in particular. He acquired an appetite for history ingeneral, the record of any nation or period; he seemed likely to become astudent. Presently he began to feel the need of languages, French andGerman. There was no opportunity to acquire French, that he coulddiscover, but there was a German shoemaker in Hannibal who agreed toteach his native tongue. Sam Clemens got a friend--very likely it wasJohn Briggs--to form a class with him, and together they arranged forlessons. The shoemaker had little or no English. They had no German. Itwould seem, however, that their teacher had some sort of a "word-book, "and when they assembled in his little cubby-hole of a retreat he beganreading aloud from it this puzzling sentence:

"De hain eet flee whoop in de hayer. "

"Dere!" he said, triumphantly; "you know dose vord?"

The students looked at each other helplessly. 

The teacher repeated the sentence, and again they were helpless when heasked if they recognized it. 

Then in despair he showed them the book. It was an English primer, andthe sentence was:

"The hen, it flies up in the air. "

They explained to him gently that it was German they wished to learn, notEnglish--not under the circumstances. Later, Sam made an attempt atLatin, and got a book for that purpose, but gave it up, saying:

"No, that language is not for me. I'll do well enough to learn English. "A boy who took it up with him became a Latin scholar. 

His prejudice against oppression he put into practice. Boys who werebeing imposed upon found in him a ready protector. Sometimes, watching agame of marbles or tops, he would remark in his slow, impressive way:

"You mustn't cheat that boy. " And the cheating stopped. When it didn't, there was a combat, with consequences. 

XVII

THE HANNIBAL "JOURNAL"

Orion returned from St. Louis. He felt that he was needed in Hannibaland, while wages there were lower, his expenses at home were slight;there was more real return for the family fund. His sister Pamela wasteaching a class in Hannibal at this time. Orion was surprised when hismother and sister greeted him with kisses and tears. Any outward displayof affection was new to him. 

The family had moved back across the street by this time. With Samsupporting himself, the earnings of Orion and Pamela provided at least asemblance of comfort. But Orion was not satisfied. Then, as always, hehad a variety of vague ambitions. Oratory appealed to him, and hedelivered a temperance lecture with an accompaniment of music, suppliedchiefly by Pamela. He aspired to the study of law, a recurringinclination throughout his career. He also thought of the ministry, anambition which Sam shared with him for a time. Every mischievous boy hasit, sooner or later, though not all for the same reasons. 

"It was the most earnest ambition I ever had, " Mark Twain once remarked, thoughtfully. "Not that I ever really wanted to be a preacher, butbecause it never occurred to me that a preacher could be damned. Itlooked like a safe job. "

A periodical ambition of Orion's was to own and conduct a paper inHannibal. He felt that in such a position he might become a power inWestern journalism. Once his father had considered buying the HannibalJournal to give Orion a chance, and possibly to further his own politicalambitions. Now Orion considered it for himself. The paper was for saleunder a mortgage, and he was enabled to borrow the $500 which wouldsecure ownership. Sam's two years at Ament's were now complete, andOrion induced him to take employment on the Journal. Henry at eleven wastaken out of school to learn typesetting. 

Orion was a gentle, accommodating soul, but he lacked force andindependence. 

"I followed all the advice I received, " he says in his record. "If twoor more persons conflicted with each other, I adopted the views of thelast. "

He started full of enthusiasm. He worked like a slave to save help:wrote his own editorials, and made his literary selections at night. Theothers worked too. Orion gave them hard tasks and long hours. He hadthe feeling that the paper meant fortune or failure to them all; that allmust labor without stint. In his usual self-accusing way he wroteafterward:

I was tyrannical and unjust to Sam. He was as swift and as clean as agood journeyman. I gave him tasks, and if he got through well Ibegrudged him the time and made him work more. He set a clean proof, andHenry a very dirty one. The correcting was left to be done in the formthe day before publication. Once we were kept late, and Sam complainedwith tears of bitterness that he was held till midnight on Henry's dirtyproofs. 

Orion did not realize any injustice at the time. The game was toodesperate to be played tenderly. His first editorials were so brilliantthat it was not believed he could have written them. The paperthroughout was excellent, and seemed on the high road to success. Butthe pace was too hard to maintain. Overwork brought weariness, andOrion's enthusiasm, never a very stable quantity, grew feeble. He becamestill more exacting. 

It is not to be supposed that Sam Clemens had given up all amusements tobecome merely a toiling drudge or had conquered in any large degree hisnatural taste for amusement. He had become more studious; but after thelong, hard days in the office it was not to be expected that a boy offifteen would employ the evening--at least not every evening--in readingbeneficial books. The river was always near at hand--for swimming in thesummer and skating in the winter--and once even at this late period itcame near claiming a heavy tribute. That was one winter's night whenwith another boy he had skated until nearly midnight. They were about inthe middle of the river when they heard a terrific and grinding noisenear the shore. They knew what it was. The ice was breaking up, andthey set out for home forthwith. It was moonlight, and they could tellthe ice from the water, which was a good thing, for there were widecracks toward the shore, and they had to wait for these to close. Theywere an hour making the trip, and just before they reached the bank theycame to a broad space of water. The ice was lifting and falling andcrunching all around them. They waited as long as they dared and decidedto leap from cake to cake. Sam made the crossing without accident, buthis companion slipped in when a few feet from shore. He was a goodswimmer and landed safely, but the bath probably cost him his hearing. Hewas taken very ill. One disease followed another, ending with scarletfever and deafness. 

There was also entertainment in the office itself. A country boy namedJim Wolfe had come to learn the trade--a green, good-natured, bashfulboy. In every trade tricks are played on the new apprentice, and Samfelt that it was his turn to play them. With John Briggs to help him, tortures for Jim Wolfe were invented and applied. 

They taught him to paddle a canoe, and upset him. They took him snipingat night and left him "holding the bag" in the old traditional fashionwhile they slipped off home and went to bed. 

But Jim Wolfe's masterpiece of entertainment was one which he undertookon his own account. Pamela was having a candy-pull down-stairs onenight--a grown-up candy-pull to which the boys were not expected. Jimwould not have gone, anyway, for he was bashful beyond belief, and alwaysdumb, and even pale with fear, in the presence of pretty Pamela Clemens. Up in their room the boys could hear the merriment from below and couldlook out in the moonlight on the snowy sloping roof that began justbeneath their window. Down at the eaves was the small arbor, green insummer, but covered now with dead vines and snow. They could hear thecandymakers come out, now and then, doubtless setting out pans of candyto cool. By and by the whole party seemed to come out into the littlearbor, to try the candy, perhaps the joking and laughter came plainly tothe boys up-stairs. About this time there appeared on the roof fromsomewhere two disreputable cats, who set up a most disturbing duel ofcharge and recrimination. Jim detested the noise, and perhaps wasgallant enough to think it would disturb the party. He had nothing tothrow at them, but he said:

"For two cents I'd get out there and knock their heads off. "

"You wouldn't dare to do it, " Sam said, purringly. 

This was wormwood to Jim. He was really a brave spirit. 

"I would too, " he said, "and I will if you say that again. "

"Why, Jim, of course you wouldn't dare to go out there. You might catchcold. "

"You wait and see, " said Jim Wolfe. 

He grabbed a pair of yarn stockings for his feet, raised the window, andcrept out on the snowy roof. There was a crust of ice on the snow, butJim jabbed his heels through it and stood up in the moonlight, his legsbare, his single garment flapping gently in the light winter breeze. Thenhe started slowly toward the cats, sinking his heels in the snow eachtime for a footing, a piece of lath in his hand. The cats were on thecorner of the roof above the arbor, and Jim cautiously worked his way inthat direction. The roof was not very steep. He was doing well enoughuntil he came to a place where the snow had melted until it was nearlysolid ice. He was so intent on the cats that he did not notice this, andwhen he struck his heel down to break the crust nothing yielded. Asecond later Jim's feet had shot out from under him, and he vaulted likean avalanche down the icy roof out on the little vine-clad arbor, andwent crashing through among those candypullers, gathered there with theirpans of cooling taffy. There were wild shrieks and a general flight. Neither Jim nor Sam ever knew how he got back to their room, but Jim wasovercome with the enormity of his offense, while Sam was in an agony oflaughter. 

"You did it splendidly, Jim, " he drawled, when he could speak. "Nobodycould have done it better; and did you see how those cats got out ofthere? I never had any idea when you started that you meant to do itthat way. And it was such a surprise to the folks down-stairs. How didyou ever think of it?"

It was a fearful ordeal for a boy like Jim Wolfe, but he stuck to hisplace in spite of what he must have suffered. The boys made him one ofthem soon after that. His initiation was thought to be complete. 

An account of Jim Wolfe and the cats was the first original story MarkTwain ever told. He told it next day, which was Sunday, to JimmyMcDaniel, the baker's son, as they sat looking out over the river, eatinggingerbread. His hearer laughed immoderately, and the story-teller wasproud and happy in his success. 

XVIII

THE BEGINNING OF A LITERARY LIFE

Orion's paper continued to go downhill. Following some random counsel, he changed the name of it and advanced the price--two blunders. Then hewas compelled to reduce the subscription, also the advertising rates. Hewas obliged to adopt a descending scale of charges and expenditures tokeep pace with his declining circulation--a fatal sign. A publisher mustlead his subscription list, not follow it. 

"I was walking backward, " he said, "not seeing where I stepped. "

In desperation he broke away and made a trip to Tennessee to see ifsomething could not be realized on the land, leaving his brother Sam incharge of the office. It was a journey without financial results; yet itbore fruit, for it marked the beginning of Mark Twain's literary career. 

Sam, in his brother's absence, concluded to edit the paper in a way thatwould liven up the circulation. He had never done any writing--not forprint--but he had the courage of his inclinations. His local items wereof a kind known as "spicy"; his personals brought prompt demand forsatisfaction. The editor of a rival paper had been in love, and was saidto have gone to the river one night to drown himself. Sam gave apicturesque account of this, with all the names connected with theaffair. Then he took a couple of big wooden block letters, turned themupside down, and engraved illustrations for it, showing the victim wadingout into the river with a stick to test the depth of the water. Whenthis issue of the paper came out the demand for it was very large. Thepress had to be kept running steadily to supply copies. The satirizededitor at first swore that he would thrash the whole journal office, thenhe left town and did not come back any more. The embryo Mark Twain alsowrote a poem. It was addressed "To Mary in Hannibal, " but the title wastoo long to be set in one column, so he left out all the letters inHannibal, except the first and the last, and supplied their place with adash, with a startling result. Such were the early flickerings of asmoldering genius. Orion returned, remonstrated, and apologized. Hereduced Sam to the ranks. In later years he saw his mistake. 

"I could have distanced all competitors even then, " he said, "if I hadrecognized Sam's ability and let him go ahead, merely keeping him fromoffending worthy persons. "

Sam was subdued, but not done for. He never would be, now. He had gothis first taste of print, and he liked it. He promptly wrote twoanecdotes which he thought humorous and sent them to the PhiladelphiaSaturday Evening Post. They were accepted--without payment, of course, in those days; and when the papers containing them appeared he feltsuddenly lifted to a lofty plane of literature. This was in 1851. 

"Seeing them in print was a joy which rather exceeded anything in thatline I have ever experienced since, " he said, nearly sixty years later. 

Yet he did not feel inspired to write anything further for the Post. Twice during the next two years he contributed to the Journal; oncesomething about Jim Wolfe, though it was not the story of the cats, andanother burlesque on a rival editor whom he pictured as hunting snipewith a cannon, the explosion of which was said to have blown the snipeout of the country. No contributions of this time have been preserved. High prices have been offered for copies of the Hannibal journalcontaining them, but without success. The Post sketches were unsignedand have not been identified. It is likely they were trivial enough. Hisearliest work showed no special individuality or merit, being mainlycrude and imitative, as the work of a boy--even a precocious boy--islikely to be. He was not especially precocious--not in literature. Hisliterary career would halt and hesitate and trifle along for many yearsyet, gathering impetus and equipment for the fuller, statelier swingwhich would bring a greater joy to the world at large, even if not tohimself, than that first, far-off triumph. --[In Mark Twain's sketch "MyFirst Literary Venture" he has set down with characteristic embroideriessome account of this early authorship. ]

Those were hard financial days. Orion could pay nothing on his mortgage--barely the interest. He had promised Sam three dollars and a half aweek, but he could do no more than supply him with board and clothes--"poor, shabby clothes, " he says in his record. 

"My mother and sister did the housekeeping. My mother was cook. Sheused the provisions I supplied her. We therefore had a regular diet ofbacon, butter, bread, and coffee. "

Mrs. Clemens again took a few boarders; Pamela, who had given up teachingfor a time, organized another music class. Orion became despondent. Onenight a cow got into the office, upset a typecase, and ate up twocomposition rollers. Orion felt that fate was dealing with a heavy hand. Another disaster quickly followed. Fire broke out in the office, and theloss was considerable. An insurance company paid one hundred and fiftydollars. With it Orion replaced such articles as were absolutely neededfor work, and removed his plant into the front room of the Clemensdwelling. He raised the one-story part of the building to give them anadded room up-stairs; and there for another two years, by hard work andpinching economies, the dying paper managed to drag along. It was thefire that furnished Sam Clemens with his Jim Wolfe sketch. In it hestated that Jim in his excitement had carried the office broom half amile and had then come back after the wash-pan. 

In the meantime Pamela Clemens married. Her husband was a well-to-domerchant, William A. Moffett, formerly of Hannibal, but then of St. Louis, where he had provided her with the comforts of a substantial home. 

Orion tried the experiment of a serial story. He wrote to a number ofwell-known authors in the East, but was unable to find one who wouldsupply a serial for the price he was willing to pay. Finally he obtaineda translation of a French novel for the sum offered, which was fivedollars. It did not save the sinking ship, however. He made theexperiment of a tri-weekly, without success. He noticed that even hismother no longer read his editorials, but turned to the general news. This was a final blow. 

"I sat down in the dark, " he says, "the moon glinting in at the opendoor. I sat with one leg over the chair and let my mind float. "

He had received an offer of five hundred dollars for his office--theamount of the mortgage--and in his moonlight reverie he decided todispose of it on those terms. This was in 1853. 

His brother Samuel was no longer with him. Several months before, inJune, Sam decided he would go out into the world. He was in hiseighteenth year now, a good workman, faithful and industrious, but he hadgrown restless in unrewarded service. Beyond his mastery of the trade hehad little to show for six years of hard labor. Once when he had askedOrion for a few dollars to buy a second-hand gun, Orion, exasperated bydesperate circumstances, fell into a passion and rated him for thinkingof such extravagance. Soon afterward Sam confided to his mother that hewas going away; that he believed Orion hated him; that there was nolonger a place for him at home. He said he would go to St. Louis, wherePamela was. There would be work for him in St. Louis, and he could sendmoney home. His intention was to go farther than St. Louis, but he darednot tell her. His mother put together sadly enough the few belongings ofwhat she regarded as her one wayward boy; then she held up a littleTestament:

"I want you to take hold of the other end of this, Sam, " she said, "andmake me a promise. "

If one might have a true picture of that scene: the shin, wiry woman offorty-nine, her figure as straight as her deportment, gray-eyed, tender, and resolute, facing the fair-cheeked, auburn-haired youth of seventeen, his eyes as piercing and unwavering as her own. Mother and son, theywere of the same metal and the same mold. 

"I want you to repeat after me, Sam, these words, " Jane Clemens said. "Ido solemnly swear that I will not throw a card or drink a drop of liquorwhile I am gone. "

He repeated the oath after her, and she kissed him. 

"Remember that, Sam, and write to us, " she said. 

"And so, " Orion records, "he went wandering in search of that comfort andthat advancement and those rewards of industry which he had failed tofind where I was--gloomy, taciturn, and selfish. I not only missed hislabor; we all missed his bounding activity and merriment. "

XIX

IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF FRANKLIN

He went to St. Louis by the night boat, visited his sister Pamela, andfound a job in the composing-room of the Evening News. He remained onthe paper only long enough to earn money with which to see the world. The"world" was New York City, where the Crystal Palace Fair was then goingon. The railway had been completed by this time, but he had not traveledon it. It had not many comforts; several days and nights were requiredfor the New York trip; yet it was a wonderful and beautiful experience. He felt that even Pet McMurry could hardly have done anything to surpassit. He arrived in New York with two or three dollars in his pocket and aten-dollar bill concealed in the lining of his coat. 

New York was a great and amazing city. It almost frightened him. Itcovered the entire lower end of Manhattan Island; visionary citizensboasted that one day it would cover it all. The World's Fair building, the Crystal Palace, stood a good way out. It was where Bryant Park isnow, on Forty-second Street and Sixth Avenue. Young Clemens classed itas one of the wonders of the world and wrote lavishly of its marvels. Aportion of a letter to his sister Pamela has been preserved and is givenhere not only for what it contains, but as the earliest existing specimenof his composition. The fragment concludes what was doubtless anexhaustive description. 

 From the gallery (second floor) you have a glorious sight--the flags of the different countries represented, the lofty dome, glittering jewelry, gaudy tapestry, etc. , with the busy crowd passing to and fro 'tis a perfect fairy palace--beautiful beyond description. 

 The machinery department is on the main floor, but I cannot enumerate any of it on account of the lateness of the hour (past 1 o'clock). It would take more than a week to examine everything on exhibition; and I was only in a little over two hours to-night. I only glanced at about one-third of the articles; and, having a poor memory, I have enumerated scarcely any of even the principal objects. The visitors to the Palace average 6, 000 daily--double the population of Hannibal. The price of admission being 50 cents, they take in about $3, 000. 

 The Latting Observatory (height about 280 feet) is near the Palace --from it you can obtain a grand view of the city and the country around. The Croton Aqueduct, to supply the city with water, is the greatest wonder yet. Immense sewers are laid across the bed of the Hudson River, and pass through the country to Westchester County, where a whole river is turned from its course and brought to New York. From the reservoir in the city to the Westchester County reservoir the distance is thirty-eight miles and, if necessary, they could easily supply every family in New York with one hundred barrels of water per day!

 I am very sorry to learn that Henry has been sick. He ought to go to the country and take exercise, for he is not half so healthy as Ma thinks he is. If he had my walking to do, he would be another boy entirely. Four times every day I walk a little over a mile; and working hard all day and walking four miles is exercise. I am used to it now, though, and it is no trouble. Where is it Orion's going to? Tell Ma my promises are faithfully kept; and if I have my health I will take her to Ky. In the spring--I shall save money for this. Tell Jim (Wolfe) and all the rest of them to write, and give me all the news . .. . 

 (It has just struck 2 A. M. , and I always get up at 6, and am at work at 7. ) You ask where I spend my evenings. Where would you suppose, with a free printer's library containing more than 4, 000 volumes within a quarter of a mile of me, and nobody at home to talk to? Write soon. 

 Truly your brother, SAM

 P. S. -I have written this by a light so dim that you nor Ma could not read by it. Write, and let me know how Henry is. 

It is a good letter; it is direct and clear in its descriptive quality, and it gives us a scale of things. Double the population of Hannibalvisited the Crystal Palace in one day! and the water to supply the citycame a distance of thirty-eight miles! Doubtless these were amazingstatistics. 

Then there was the interest in family affairs--always strong--his concernfor Henry, whom he loved tenderly; his memory of the promise to hismother; his understanding of her craving to visit her old home. He didnot write to her direct, for the reason that Orion's plans were thenuncertain, and it was not unlikely that he had already found a newlocation. From this letter, too, we learn that the boy who detestedschool was reveling in a library of four thousand books--more than he hadever seen together before. We have somehow the feeling that he had allat once stepped from boyhood to manhood, and that the separation wasmarked by a very definite line. 

The work he had secured was in Cliff Street in the printing establishmentof John A. Gray & Green, who agreed to pay him four dollars a week, anddid pay that amount in wildcat money, which saved them about twenty-fiveper cent. Of the sum. He lodged at a mechanics' boarding-house in DuaneStreet, and when he had paid his board and washing he sometimes had asmuch as fifty cents to lay away. 

He did not like the board. He had been accustomed to the Southern modeof cooking, and wrote home complaining that New-Yorkers did not have"hot-bread" or biscuits, but ate "light-bread, " which they allowed to getstale, seeming to prefer it in that way. On the whole, there was notmuch inducement to remain in New York after he had satisfied himself withits wonders. He lingered, however, through the hot months of 1853, andfound it not easy to go. In October he wrote to Pamela, suggesting plansfor Orion; also for Henry and Jim Wolfe, whom he seems never to haveoverlooked. Among other things he says:

 I have not written to any of the family for some time, from the fact, firstly, that I didn't know where they were, and, secondly, because I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to leave New York every day for the last two weeks. I have taken a liking to the abominable place, and every time I get ready to leave I put it off a day or so, from some unaccountable cause. I think I shall get off Tuesday, though. 

 Edwin Forrest has been playing for the last sixteen days at the Broadway Theater, but I never went to see him till last night. The play was the "Gladiator. " I did not like parts of it much, but other portions were really splendid. In the latter part of the last act, where the "Gladiator" (Forrest) dies at his brother's feet (in all the fierce pleasure of gratified revenge), the man's whole soul seems absorbed in the part he is playing; and it is really startling to see him. I am sorry I did not see him play "Damon and Pythias" --the former character being the greatest. He appears in Philadelphia on Monday night. 

 I have not received a letter from home lately, but got a "Journal" the other day, in which I see the office has been sold . . . . 

 If my letters do not come often, you need not bother yourself about me; for if you have a brother nearly eighteen years of age who is not able to take care of himself a few miles from home, such a brother is not worth one's thoughts; and if I don't manage to take care of No. 1, be assured you will never know it. I am not afraid, however; I shall ask favors of no one and endeavor to be (and shall be) as "independent as a wood-sawyer's clerk. ". . . 

 Passage to Albany (160 miles) on the finest steamers that ply the Hudson is now 25 cents--cheap enough, but is generally cheaper than that in the summer. 

"I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to leave NewYork" is distinctly a Mark Twain phrase. He might have said that fiftyyears later. 

He did go to Philadelphia presently and found work "subbing" on a dailypaper, 'The Inquirer. ' He was a fairly swift compositor. He could setten thousand ems a day, and he received pay according to the amount ofwork done. Days or evenings when there was no vacant place for him tofill he visited historic sites, the art-galleries, and the libraries. Hewas still acquiring education, you see. Sometimes at night when hereturned to his boardinghouse his room-mate, an Englishman named Sumner, grilled a herring, and this was regarded as a feast. He tried his handat writing in Philadelphia, though this time without success. For somereason he did not again attempt to get into the Post, but offered hiscontributions to the Philadelphia 'Ledger'--mainly poetry of an obituarykind. Perhaps it was burlesque; he never confessed that, but it seemsunlikely that any other obituary poetry would have failed of print. 

"My efforts were not received with approval, " was all he ever said of itafterward. 

There were two or three characters in the 'Inquirer' office whom he didnot forget. One of these was an old compositor who had "held a case" inthat office for many years. His name was Frog, and sometimes when hewent away the "office devils" would hang a line over his case, with ahook on it baited with a piece of red flannel. They never got tired ofthis joke, and Frog was always able to get as mad over it as he had beenin the beginning. Another old fellow there furnished amusement. Heowned a house in the distant part of the city and had an abnormal fear offire. Now and then, when everything was quiet except the clicking of thetypes, some one would step to the window and say with a concerned air:

"Doesn't that smoke--[or that light, if it was evening]--seem to be inthe northwestern part of the city?" or "There go the fire-bells again!"and away the old man would tramp up to the roof to investigate. It wasnot the most considerate sport, and it is to be feared that Sam Clemenshad his share in it. 

He found that he liked Philadelphia. He could save a little money there, for one thing, and now and then sent something to his mother--smallamounts, but welcome and gratifying, no doubt. In a letter to Orion--whom he seems to have forgiven with absence--written October 26th, heincloses a gold dollar to buy her a handkerchief, and "to serve as aspecimen of the kind of stuff we are paid with in Philadelphia. " Furtheralong he adds:

 Unlike New York, I like this Philadelphia amazingly, and the people in it. There is only one thing that gets my "dander" up--and that is the hands are always encouraging me: telling me "it's no use to get discouraged--no use to be downhearted, for there is more work here than you can do!" "Downhearted, " the devil! I have not had a particle of such a feeling since I left Hannibal, more than four months ago. I fancy they'll have to wait some time till they see me downhearted or afraid of starving while I have strength to work and am in a city of 400, 000 inhabitants. When I was in Hannibal, before I had scarcely stepped out of the town limits, nothing could have convinced me that I would starve as soon as I got a little way from home. 

He mentions the grave of Franklin in Christ Churchyard with itsinscription "Benjamin and Deborah Franklin, " and one is sharply remindedof the similarity between the early careers of Benjamin Franklin andSamuel Clemens. Each learned the printer's trade; each worked in hisbrother's printing-office and wrote for the paper; each left quietly andwent to New York, and from New York to Philadelphia, as a journeymanprinter; each in due season became a world figure, many-sided, human, andof incredible popularity. 

The foregoing letter ends with a long description of a trip made on theFairmount stage. It is a good, vivid description--impressions of afresh, sensitive mind, set down with little effort at fine writing; aletter to convey literal rather than literary enjoyment. The WireBridge, Fairmount Park and Reservoir, new buildings--all these passed inreview. A fine residence about completed impressed him:

 It was built entirely of great blocks of red granite. The pillars in front were all finished but one. These pillars were beautiful, ornamental fluted columns, considerably larger than a hogshead at the base, and about as high as Clapinger's second-story front windows . . . . To see some of them finished and standing, and then the huge blocks lying about, looks so massy, and carries one, in imagination, to the ruined piles of ancient Babylon. I despise the infernal bogus brick columns plastered over with mortar. Marble is the cheapest building-stone about Philadelphia. 

There is a flavor of the 'Innocents' about it; then a little furtheralong:

 I saw small steamboats, with their signs up--"For Wissahickon and Manayunk 25 cents. " Geo. Lippard, in his Legends of Washington and his Generals, has rendered the Wissahickon sacred in my eyes, and I shall make that trip, as well as one to Germantown, soon . . . . 

 There is one fine custom observed in Phila. A gentleman is always expected to hand up a lady's money for her. Yesterday I sat in the front end of the bus, directly under the driver's box--a lady sat opposite me. She handed me her money, which was right. But, Lord! a St. Louis lady would think herself ruined if she should be so familiar with a stranger. In St. Louis a man will sit in the front end of the stage, and see a lady stagger from the far end to pay her fare. 

There are two more letters from Philadelphia: one of November, 28th, toOrion, who by this time had bought a paper in Muscatine, Iowa, andlocated the family there; and one to Pamela dated December 5th. EvidentlyOrion had realized that his brother might be of value as a contributor, for the latter says:

 I will try to write for the paper occasionally, but I fear my letters will be very uninteresting, for this incessant night work dulls one's ideas amazingly. .. . I believe I am the only person in the Inquirer office that does not drink. One young fellow makes $18 for a few weeks, and gets on a grand "bender" and spends every cent of it. 

 How do you like "free soil"?--I would like amazingly to see a good old-fashioned negro. My love to all. 

 Truly your brother, SAM

In the letter to Pamela he is clearly homesick. 

"I only want to return to avoid night work, which is injuring my eyes, "is the excuse, but in the next sentence he complains of the scarcity ofletters from home and those "not written as they should be. " "One onlyhas to leave home to learn how to write interesting letters to an absentfriend, " he says, and in conclusion, "I don't like our present prospectfor cold weather at all. "

He had been gone half a year, and the first attack of home-longing, for aboy of his age, was due. The novelty of things had worn off; it wascoming on winter; changes had taken place among his home people andfriends; the life he had known best and longest was going on and he hadno part in it. Leaning over his case, he sometimes hummed:

 "An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain. "

He weathered the attack and stuck it out for more than half a yearlonger. In January, when the days were dark and he grew depressed, hemade a trip to Washington to see the sights of the capital. His stay wascomparatively brief, and he did not work there. He returned toPhiladelphia, working for a time on the Ledger and North American. Finally he went back to New York. There are no letters of this period. His second experience in New York appears not to have been recorded, andin later years was only vaguely remembered. It was late in the summer of1854 when he finally set out on his return to the West. His 'Wanderjahr'had lasted nearly fifteen months. 

He went directly to St. Louis, sitting up three days and nights in asmoking-car to make the journey. He was worn out when he arrived, butstopped there only a few hours to see Pamela. It was his mother he wasanxious for. He took the Keokuk Packet that night, and, flinging himselfon his berth, slept the clock three times around, scarcely rousing orturning over, only waking at last at Muscatine. For a long time thatmissing day confused his calculations. 

When he reached Orion's house the family sat at breakfast. He came incarrying a gun. They had not been expecting him, and there was a generaloutcry, and a rush in his direction. He warded them off, holding thebutt of the gun in front of him. 

"You wouldn't let me buy a gun, " he said, "so I bought one myself, and Iam going to use it, now, in self-defense. "

"You, Sam! You, Sam!" cried Jane Clemens. "Behave yourself, " for shewas wary of a gun. 

Then he had had his joke and gave himself into his mother's arms. 

XX

KEOKUK DAYS

Orion wished his brother to remain with him in the Muscatine office, butthe young man declared he must go to St. Louis and earn some money beforehe would be able to afford that luxury: He returned to his place on theSt. Louis Evening News, where he remained until late winter or earlyspring of the following year. 

He lived at this time with a Pavey family, probably one of the HannibalPaveys, rooming with a youth named Frank E. Burrough, a journeymanchair-maker with a taste for Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, and Disraeli. Burrough had really a fine literary appreciation for his years, and theboys were comrades and close friends. Twenty-two years later Mark Twainexchanged with Burrough some impressions of himself at that earlier time. Clemens wrote:

 MY DEAR BURROUGH, --As you describe me I can picture myself as I was 22 years ago. The portrait is correct. You think I have grown some; upon my word there was room for it. You have described a callow fool, a self-sufficient ass, a mere human tumble-bug, stern in air, heaving at his bit of dung, imagining that he is remodeling the world and is entirely capable of doing it right. .. . That is what I was at 19-20. 

Orion Clemens in the mean time had married and removed to Keokuk. He hadmarried during a visit to that city, in the casual, impulsive way socharacteristic of him, and the fact that he had acquired a wife in theoperation seemed at first to have escaped his inner consciousness. Hetells it himself; he says:

 At sunrise on the next morning after the wedding we left in a stage for Muscatine. We halted for dinner at Burlington. After despatching that meal we stood on the pavement when the stage drove up, ready for departure. I climbed in, gathered the buffalo robe around me, and leaned back unconscious that I had anything further to do. A gentleman standing on the pavement said to my wife, "Miss, do you go by this stage?" I said, "Oh, I forgot!" and sprang out and helped her in. A wife was a new kind of possession to which I had not yet become accustomed; I had forgotten her. 

Orion's wife had been Mary Stotts; her mother a friend of Jane Clemens'sgirlhood. She proved a faithful helpmate to Orion; but in those earlydays of marriage she may have found life with him rather trying, and itwas her homesickness that brought them to Keokuk. Brother Sam came upfrom St. Louis, by and by, to visit them, and Orion offered him fivedollars a week and board to remain. He accepted. The office at thistime, or soon after, was located on the third floor of 52 Main Street, inthe building at present occupied by the Paterson Shoe Company. HenryClemens, now seventeen, was also in Orion's employ, and a lad by the nameof Dick Hingham. Henry and Sam slept in the office, and Dick came in forsocial evenings. Also a young man named Edward Brownell, who clerked inthe book-store on the ground floor. 

These were likely to be lively evenings. A music dealer and teacher, Professor Isbell, occupied the floor just below, and did not care fortheir diversions. He objected, but hardly in the right way. Had he goneto Samuel Clemens gently, he undoubtedly would have found him willing tomake any concessions. Instead, he assailed him roughly, and the nextevening the boys set up a lot of empty wine-bottles, which they had foundin a barrel in a closet, and, with stones for balls, played tenpins onthe office floor. This was Dick and Sam; Henry declined to join thegame. Isbell rushed up-stairs and battered on the door, but they paid noattention. Next morning he waited for the young men and denounced themwildly. They merely ignored him, and that night organized a militarycompany, made up of themselves and a new German apprentice-boy, anddrilled up and down over the singing-class. Dick Hingham led thesemilitary manoeuvers. He was a girlish sort of a fellow, but he had anatural taste for soldiering. The others used to laugh at him. Theycalled him a disguised girl, and declared he would run if a gun werereally pointed in his direction. They were mistaken; seven years laterDick died at Fort Donelson with a bullet in his forehead: this, by theway. 

Isbell now adopted new tactics. He came up very pleasantly and said:

"I like your military practice better than your tenpin exercise, but onthe whole it seems to disturb the young ladies. You see how it isyourself. You couldn't possibly teach music with a company of rawrecruits drilling overhead--now, could you? Won't you please stop it? Itbothers my pupils. "

Sam Clemens regarded him with mild surprise. 

"Does it?" he said, very deliberately. "Why didn't you mention itbefore? To be sure we don't want to disturb the young ladies. "

They gave up the horse-play, and not only stopped the disturbance, butjoined one of the singing--classes. Samuel Clemens had a pretty goodvoice in those days and could drum fairly well on a piano and guitar. Hedid not become a brilliant musician, but he was easily the most popularmember of the singing-class. 

They liked his frank nature, his jokes, and his humor; his slow, quaintfashion of speech. The young ladies called him openly and fondly a"fool"--a term of endearment, as they applied it meaning only that hekept them in a more or less constant state of wonder and merriment; andindeed it would have been hard for them to say whether he was reallylight-minded and frivolous or the wisest of them all. He was twenty nowand at the age for love-making; yet he remained, as in Hannibal, a beaurather than a suitor, good friend and comrade to all, wooer of none. EllaCreel, a cousin on the Lampton side, a great belle; also Ella Patterson(related through Orion's wife and generally known as "Ick"), and BelleStotts were perhaps his favorite companions, but there were many more. He was always ready to stop and be merry with them, full of his pranksand pleasantries; though they noticed that he quite often carried a bookunder his arm--a history or a volume of Dickens or the tales of EdgarAllan Poe. 

He read at odd moments; at night voluminously--until very late, sometimes. Already in that early day it was his habit to smoke in bed, and he had made him an Oriental pipe of the hubble-bubble variety, because it would hold more and was more comfortable than the regularshort pipe of daytime use. 

But it had its disadvantages. Sometimes it would go out, and that wouldmean sitting up and reaching for a match and leaning over to light thebowl which stood on the floor. Young Brownell from below was passingupstairs to his room on the fourth floor one night when he heard SamClemens call. The two were great chums by this time, and Brownell pokedhis head in at the door. 

"What will you have, Sam?" he asked. 

"Come in, Ed; Henry's asleep, and I am in trouble. I want somebody tolight my pipe. "

"Why don't you get up and light it yourself?" Brownell asked. 

"I would, only I knew you'd be along in a few minutes and would do it forme. "

Brownell scratched the necessary match, stooped down, and applied it. 

"What are you reading, Sam?" he asked. 

"Oh, nothing much--a so-called funny book--one of these days I'll write afunnier book than that, myself. "

Brownell laughed. 

"No, you won't, Sam, " he said. "You are too lazy ever to write a book. "

A good many years later when the name "Mark Twain" had begun to stand forAmerican humor the owner of it gave his "Sandwich Island" lecture inKeokuk. Speaking of the unreliability of the islanders, he said: "Theking is, I believe, one of the greatest liars on the face of the earth, except one; and I am very sorry to locate that one right here in the cityof Keokuk, in the person of Ed Brownell. "

The Keokuk episode in Mark Twain's life was neither very long nor veryactively important. It extended over a period of less than two years--two vital years, no doubt, if all the bearings could be known--but theywere not years of startling occurrence. 

Yet he made at least one beginning there: at a printers' banquet hedelivered his first after-dinner speech; a hilarious speech--its humor ofa primitive kind. Whatever its shortcomings, it delighted his audience, and raised him many points in the public regard. He had entered a fieldof entertainment in which he would one day have no rival. They impressedhim into a debating society after that, and there was generally a stir ofattention when Sam Clemens was about to take the floor. 

Orion Clemens records how his brother undertook to teach the Germanapprentice music. 

"There was an old guitar in the office and Sam taught Fritz a songbeginning:

 "Grasshopper sitting on a sweet-potato vine, Turkey came along and yanked him from behind. "

The main point in the lesson was in giving to the word "yanked" theproper expression and emphasis, accompanied by a sweep of the fingersacross the strings. With serious face and deep earnestness Fritz in hisbroken English would attempt these lines, while his teacher would bendover and hold his sides with laughter at each ridiculous effort. Withoutintending it, Fritz had his revenge. One day his tormentor's hand wascaught in the press when the German boy was turning the wheel. Samcalled to him to stop, but the boy's mind was slow to grasp thesituation. The hand was badly wounded, though no bones were broken. Indue time it recovered, its power and dexterity, but the trace of thescars remained. 

Orion's printing-office was not a prosperous one; he had not the gift ofprosperity in any form. When he found it difficult to pay his brother'swages, he took him into partnership, which meant that Sam got no wages atall, barely a living, for the office could not keep its head above water. 

The junior partner was not disturbed, however. He cared little for moneyin those days, beyond his actual needs, and these were modest enough. Hismother, now with Pamela, was amply provided for. Orion himself tells howhis business dwindled away. He printed a Keokuk directory, but it didnot pay largely. He was always too eager for the work; too low in hisbid for it. Samuel Clemens in this directory is set down as "anantiquarian" a joke, of course, though the point of it is now lost. 

Only two of his Keokuk letters have been preserved. The first indicatesthe general disorder of the office and a growing dissatisfaction. It isaddressed to his mother and sister and bears date of June 10, 1856. 

 I don't like to work at too many things at once. They take Henry and Dick away from me, too. Before we commenced the Directory, --[Orion printed two editions of the directory. This was probably the second one. ]--I could tell before breakfast just how much work could be done during the day, and manage accordingly--but now, they throw all my plans into disorder by taking my hands away from their work. .. . I am not getting along well with the job-work. I can't work blindly--without system. I gave Dick a job yesterday, which I calculated he could set in two hours and I could work off on the press in three, and therefore just finish it by supper-time, but he was transferred to the Directory, and the job, promised this morning, remains untouched. Through all the great pressure of job- work lately, I never before failed in a promise of the kind . . . 

The other letter is dated two months later, August 5th. It was writtento Henry, who was visiting in St. Louis or Hannibal at the time, andintroduces the first mention of the South American fever, which nowpossessed the writer. Lynch and Herndon had completed their survey ofthe upper Amazon, and Lieutenant Herndon's account of the exploration wasbeing widely read. Poring over the book nights, young Clemens had beenseized with a desire to go to the headwaters of the South American river, there to collect coca and make a fortune. All his life he was subject tosuch impulses as that, and ways and means were not always considered. Itdid not occur to him that it would be difficult to get to the Amazon andstill more difficult to ascend the river. It was his nature to seeresults with a dazzling largeness that blinded him to the detail of theirachievement. In the "Turning-point" article already mentioned he refersto this. He says:

 That was more than fifty years ago. In all that time my temperament has not changed by even a shade. I have been punished many and many a time, and bitterly, for doing things and reflecting afterward, but these tortures have been of no value to me; I still do the thing commanded by Circumstance and Temperament, and reflect afterward. Always violently. When I am reflecting on these occasions, even deaf persons can hear me think. 

In the letter to Henry we see that his resolve was already made, hisplans matured; also that Orion had not as yet been taken into fullconfidence. 

 Ma knows my determination, but even she counsels me to keep it from Orion. She says I can treat him as I did her when I started to St. Louis and went to New York--I can start for New York and go to South America. 

He adds that Orion had promised him fifty or one hundred dollars, butthat he does not depend upon it, and will make other arrangements. Hefears obstacles may be put in his way, and he will bring variousinfluences to bear. 

 I shall take care that Ma and Orion are plentifully supplied with South American books: They have Herndon's report now. Ward and the Dr. And myself will hold a grand consultation to-night at the office. We have agreed that no more shall be admitted into our company. 

He had enlisted those two adventurers in his enterprise: a Doctor Martinand the young man, Ward. They were very much in earnest, but the startwas not made as planned, most likely for want of means. 

Young Clemens, however, did not give up the idea. He made up his mind towork in the direction of his desire, following his trade and laying bymoney for the venture. But Fate or Providence or Accident--whatever wemay choose to call the unaccountable--stepped in just then, and laidbefore him the means of turning another sharp corner in his career. Oneof those things happened which we refuse to accept in fiction aspossible; but fact has a smaller regard for the credibilities. 

As in the case of the Joan of Arc episode (and this adds to its marvel), it was the wind that brought the talismanic gift. It was a day in earlyNovember--bleak, bitter, and gusty, with curling snow; most persons wereindoors. Samuel Clemens, going down Main Street, saw a flying bit ofpaper pass him and lodge against the side of a building. Something aboutit attracted him and he captured it. It was a fifty-dollar bill. He hadnever seen one before, but he recognized it. He thought he must behaving a pleasant dream. 

The temptation came to pocket his good-fortune and say nothing. His needof money was urgent, but he had also an urgent and troublesomeconscience; in the end he advertised his find. 

"I didn't describe it very particularly, and I waited in daily fear thatthe owner would turn up and take away my fortune. By and by I couldn'tstand it any longer. My conscience had gotten all that was coming to it. I felt that I must take that money out of danger. "

In the "Turning-point" article he says: "I advertised the find and leftfor the Amazon the same day, " a statement which we may accept with aliterary discount. 

As a matter of fact, he remained ample time and nobody ever came for themoney. It may have been swept out of a bank or caught up by the windfrom some counting-room table. It may have materialized out of theunseen--who knows? At all events it carried him the first stage of ajourney, the end of which he little dreamed. 

XXI

SCOTCHMAN NAMED MACFARLANE

He concluded to go to Cincinnati, which would be on the way either to NewYork or New Orleans (he expected to sail from one of these points), butfirst paid a brief visit to his mother in St. Louis, for he had a farjourney and along absence in view. Jane Clemens made him renew hispromise as to cards and liquor, and gave him her blessing. He hadexpected to go from St. Louis to Cincinnati, but a new idea--a literaryidea--came to him, and he returned to Keokuk. The Saturday Post, aKeokuk weekly, was a prosperous sheet giving itself certain literaryairs. He was in favor with the management, of which George Rees was thehead, and it had occurred to him that he could send letters of histravels to the Post--for, a consideration. He may have had a stilllarger ambition; at least, the possibility of a book seems to have beenin his consciousness. Rees agreed to take letters from him at fivedollars each--good payment for that time and place. The young traveler, jubilant in the prospect of receiving money for literature, now madeanother start, this time by way of Quincy, Chicago, and Indianapolisaccording to his first letter in the Post. --[Supplied by Thomas Rees, ofthe Springfield (Illinois) Register, son of George Rees named. ]

This letter is dated Cincinnati, November 14, 1856, and it is not apromising literary production. It was written in the exaggerated dialectthen regarded as humorous, and while here and there are flashes of theundoubted Mark Twain type, they are few and far between. The genius thata little more than ten years later would delight the world flickeredfeebly enough at twenty-one. The letter is a burlesque account of thetrip to Cincinnati. A brief extract from it, as characteristic as any, will serve. 

 I went down one night to the railroad office there, purty close onto the Laclede House, and bought about a quire o' yaller paper, cut up into tickets--one for each railroad in the United States, I thought, but I found out afterwards that the Alexandria and Boston Air-Line was left out--and then got a baggage feller to take my trunk down to the boat, where he spilled it out on the levee, bustin' it open and shakin' out the contents, consisting of "guides" to Chicago, and "guides" to Cincinnati, and travelers' guides, and all kinds of sich books, not excepting a "guide to heaven, " which last aint much use to a Teller in Chicago, I kin tell you. Finally, that fast packet quit ringing her bell, and started down the river--but she hadn't gone morn a mile, till she ran clean up on top of a sand-bar, whar she stuck till plum one o'clock, spite of the Captain's swearin' --and they had to set the whole crew to cussin' at last afore they got her off. 

This is humor, we may concede, of that early American type which a littlelater would have its flower in Nasby and Artemus Ward. Only carefulexamination reveals in it a hint of the later Mark Twain. The letterswere signed "Snodgrass, " and there are but two of them. The second, dated exactly four months after the first, is in the same assassinatingdialect, and recounts among other things the scarcity of coal inCincinnati and an absurd adventure in which Snodgrass has a baby left onhis hands. 

From the fewness of the letters we may assume that Snodgrass found themhard work, and it is said he raised on the price. At all events, thesecond concluded the series. They are mainly important in that they arethe first of his contributions that have been preserved; also the firstfor which he received a cash return. 

He secured work at his trade in Cincinnati at the printing-office ofWrightson & Co. , and remained there until April, 1857. That winter inCincinnati was eventless enough, but it was marked by one notableassociation--one that beyond doubt forwarded Samuel Clemens's generalinterest in books, influenced his taste, and inspired in him certainviews and philosophies which he never forgot. 

He lodged at a cheap boarding-house filled with the usual commonplacepeople, with one exception. This exception was a long, lank, unsmilingScotchman named Macfarlane, who was twice as old as Clemens and whollyunlike him--without humor or any comprehension of it. Yet meeting on thecommon plane of intellect, the two became friends. Clemens spent hisevenings in Macfarlane's room until the clock struck ten; then Macfarlanegrilled a herring, just as the Englishman Sumner in Philadelphia had donetwo years before, and the evening ended. 

Macfarlane had books, serious books: histories, philosophies, andscientific works; also a Bible and a dictionary. He had studied theseand knew them by heart; he was a direct and diligent talker. He nevertalked of himself, and beyond the statement that he had acquired hisknowledge from reading, and not at school, his personality was a mystery. He left the house at six in the morning and returned at the same hour inthe evening. His hands were hardened from some sort of toil-mechanicallabor, his companion thought, but he never knew. He would have liked toknow, and he watched for some reference to slip out that would betrayMacfarlane's trade; but this never happened. 

What he did learn was that Macfarlane was a veritable storehouse ofabstruse knowledge; a living dictionary, and a thinker and philosopherbesides. He had at least one vanity: the claim that he knew every wordin the English dictionary, and he made it good. The younger man triedrepeatedly to discover a word that Macfarlane could not define. 

Perhaps Macfarlane was vain of his other mental attainments, for he nevertired of discoursing upon deep and grave matters, and his companion nevertired of listening. This Scotch philosopher did not always reflect theconclusions of others; he had speculated deeply and strikingly on his ownaccount. That was a good while before Darwin and Wallace gave out--theirconclusions on the Descent of Man; yet Macfarlane was already advancing asimilar philosophy. He went even further: Life, he said, had beendeveloped in the course of ages from a few microscopic seed-germs--fromone, perhaps, planted by the Creator in the dawn of time, and that fromthis beginning development on an ascending scale had finally producedman. Macfarlane said that the scheme had stopped there, and failed; thatman had retrograded; that man's heart was the only bad one in the animalkingdom: that man was the only animal capable of malice, vindictiveness, drunkenness--almost the only animal that could endure personaluncleanliness. He said that man's intellect was a depraving addition tohim which, in the end, placed him in a rank far below the other beasts, though it enabled him to keep them in servitude and captivity, along withmany members of his own race. 

They were long, fermenting discourses that young Samuel Clemens listenedto that winter in Macfarlane's room, and those who knew the real MarkTwain and his philosophies will recognize that those evenings left theirimpress upon him for life. 

XXII

THE OLD CALL OF THE RIVER

When spring came, with budding life and quickening impulses; when thetrees in the parks began to show a hint of green, the Amazonian ideadeveloped afresh, and the would-be coca-hunter prepared for hisexpedition. He had saved a little money--enough to take him to NewOrleans--and he decided to begin his long trip with a peaceful journeydown the Mississippi, for once, at least, to give himself up to thatindolent luxury of the majestic stream that had been so large a part ofhis early dreams. 

The Ohio River steamers were not the most sumptuous craft afloat, butthey were slow and hospitable. The winter had been bleak and hard. "Spring fever" and a large love of indolence had combined in that drowsycondition which makes one willing to take his time. 

Mark Twain tells us in Life on the Mississippi that he "ran away, " vowingnever to return until he could come home a pilot, shedding glory. Thisis a literary statement. The pilot ambition had never entirely died; butit was coca and the Amazon that were uppermost in his head when heengaged passage on the Paul Jones for New Orleans, and so conferredimmortality on that ancient little craft. He bade good-by to Macfarlane, put his traps aboard, the bell rang, the whistle blew, the gang-plank washauled in, and he had set out on a voyage that was to continue not for aweek or a fortnight, but for four years--four marvelous, sunlit years, the glory of which would color all that followed them. 

In the Mississippi book the author conveys the impression of being then aboy of perhaps seventeen. Writing from that standpoint he recordsincidents that were more or less inventions or that happened to others. He was, in reality, considerably more than twenty-one years old, for itwas in April, 1857, that he went aboard the Paul Jones; and he was fairlyfamiliar with steamboats and the general requirements of piloting. Hehad been brought up in a town that turned out pilots; he had heard thetalk of their trade. One at least of the Bowen boys was already on theriver while Sam Clemens was still a boy in Hannibal, and had often beenhome to air his grandeur and dilate on the marvel of his work. Thatlearning the river was no light task Sam Clemens very well knew. Nevertheless, as the little boat made its drowsy way down the river intolands that grew ever pleasanter with advancing spring, the old "permanentambition" of boyhood stirred again, and the call of the far-away Amazon, with its coca and its variegated zoology, grew faint. 

Horace Bixby, pilot of the Paul Jones, then a man of thirty-two, stillliving (1910) and at the wheel, --[The writer of this memoir interviewedMr. Bixby personally, and has followed his phrasing throughout. ]--waslooking out over the bow at the head of Island No. 35 when he heard aslow, pleasant voice say:

"Good morning. "

Bixby was a clean-cut, direct, courteous man. 

"Good morning, sir, " he said, briskly, without looking around. 

As a rule Mr. Bixby did not care for visitors in the pilot-house. Thisone presently came up and stood a little behind him. 

"How would you like a young man to learn the river?" he said. 

The pilot glanced over his shoulder and saw a rather slender, loose-limbed young fellow with a fair, girlish complexion and a greattangle of auburn hair. 

"I wouldn't like it. Cub pilots are more trouble than they're worth. Agreat deal more trouble than profit. "

The applicant was not discouraged. 

"I am a printer by trade, " he went on, in his easy, deliberate way. "Itdoesn't agree with me. I thought I'd go to South America. "

Bixby kept his eye on the river; but a note of interest crept into hisvoice. 

"What makes you pull your words that way?" ("pulling" being the riverterm for drawling), he asked. 

The young man had taken a seat on the visitors' bench. 

"You'll have to ask my mother, " he said, more slowly than ever. "Shepulls hers, too. "

Pilot Bixby woke up and laughed; he had a keen sense of humor, and themanner of the reply amused him. His guest made another advance. 

"Do you know the Bowen boys?" he asked--"pilots in the St. Louis and NewOrleans trade?"

"I know them well--all three of them. William Bowen did his firststeering for me; a mighty good boy, too. Had a Testament in his pocketwhen he came aboard; in a week's time he had swapped it for a pack ofcards. I know Sam, too, and Bart. "

"Old schoolmates of mine in Hannibal. Sam and Will especially were mychums. "

"Come over and stand by the side of me, " he said. "What is your name?"

The applicant told him, and the two stood looking at the sunlit water. 

"Do you drink?"

"No. "

"Do you gamble?"

"No, Sir. "

"Do you swear?"

"Not for amusement; only under pressure. "

"Do you chew?"

"No, sir, never; but I must smoke. "

"Did you ever do any steering?" was Bixby's next question. 

"I have steered everything on the river but a steamboat, I guess. "

"Very well; take the wheel and see what you can do with a steamboat. Keepher as she is--toward that lower cottonwood, snag. "

Bixby had a sore foot and was glad of a little relief. He sat down onthe bench and kept a careful eye on the course. By and by he said:

"There is just one way that I would take a young man to learn the river:that is, for money. "

"What do you charge?"

"Five hundred dollars, and I to be at no expense whatever. "

In those days pilots were allowed to carry a learner, or "cub, " boardfree. Mr. Bixby meant that he was to be at no expense in port, or forincidentals. His terms looked rather discouraging. 

"I haven't got five hundred dollars in money, " Sam said; "I've got a lotof Tennessee land worth twenty-five cents an acre; I'll give you twothousand acres of that. "

Bixby dissented. 

"No; I don't want any unimproved real estate. I have too much already. "

Sam reflected upon the amount he could probably borrow from Pamela'shusband without straining his credit. 

"Well, then, I'll give you one hundred dollars cash and the rest when Iearn it. "

Something about this young man had won Horace Bixby's heart. His slow, pleasant speech; his unhurried, quiet manner with the wheel, his evidentsincerity of purpose--these were externals, but beneath them the pilotfelt something of that quality of mind or heart which later made theworld love Mark Twain. The terms proposed were agreed upon. Thedeferred payments were to begin when the pupil had learned the river andwas receiving pilot's wages. During Mr. Bixby's daylight watches hispupil was often at the wheel, that trip, while the pilot sat directinghim and nursing his sore foot. Any literary ambitions Samuel Clemens mayhave had grew dim; by the time they had reached New Orleans he had almostforgotten he had been a printer, and when he learned that no ship wouldbe sailing to the Amazon for an indefinite period the feeling grew that adirecting hand had taken charge of his affairs. 

From New Orleans his chief did not return to Cincinnati, but went to St. Louis, taking with him his new cub, who thought it fine, indeed, to comesteaming up to that great city with its thronging water-front; its leveefairly packed with trucks, drays, and piles of freight, the whole flankedwith a solid mile of steamboats lying side by side, bow a littleup-stream, their belching stacks reared high against the blue--a toweringfront of trade. It was glorious to nose one's way to a place in thatstately line, to become a unit, however small, of that imposing fleet. AtSt. Louis Sam borrowed from Mr. Moffett the funds necessary to make uphis first payment, and so concluded his contract. Then, when he suddenlyfound himself on a fine big boat, in a pilot-house so far above the waterthat he seemed perched on a mountain--a "sumptuous temple"--his happinessseemed complete. 

XXIII

THE SUPREME SCIENCE

In his Mississippi book Mark Twain has given us a marvelous exposition ofthe science of river-piloting, and of the colossal task of acquiring andkeeping a knowledge requisite for that work. He has not exaggerated thispart of the story of developments in any detail; he has set down a simpleconfession. 

Serenely enough he undertook the task of learning twelve hundred miles ofthe great changing, shifting river as exactly and as surely by daylightor darkness as one knows the way to his own features. As alreadysuggested, he had at least an inkling of what that undertaking meant. Hisstatement that he "supposed all that a pilot had to do was to keep hisboat in the river" is not to be accepted literally. Still he couldhardly have realized the full majesty of his task; nobody could do that--not until afterward. 

Horace Bixby was a "lightning" pilot with a method of instruction asdirect and forcible as it was effective. He was a small man, hot andquick-firing, though kindly, too, and gentle when he had blown off. Afterone rather pyrotechnic misunderstanding as to the manner of imparting andacquiring information he said:

"My boy, you must get a little memorandum-book, and every time I tell youa thing put it down right away. There's only one way to be a pilot, andthat is to get this entire river by heart. You have to know it just likeA B C. "

So Sam Clemens got the little book, and presently it "fairly bristled"with the names of towns, points, bars, islands, bends, and reaches, butit made his heart ache to think that he had only half of the river setdown; for, as the "watches" were four hours off and four hours on, therewere long gaps during which he had slept. 

The little note-book still exists--thin and faded, with black water-proofcovers--its neat, tiny, penciled notes still, telling, the story of thatfirst trip. Most of them are cryptographic abbreviations, not readilydeciphered now. Here and there is an easier line:

 MERIWEATHER'S BEND

 1/4 less 3--[Depth of water. One-quarter less than three fathoms. ]----run shape of upper bar and go into the low place in willows about 200(ft. ) lower down than last year. 

One simple little note out of hundreds far more complicated. It wouldtake days for the average mind to remember even a single page of suchstatistics. And those long four-hour gaps where he had been asleep, theyare still there, and somehow, after more than fifty years, the oldheart-ache is still in them. He got a new book, maybe, for the nexttrip, and laid this one away. 

There is but one way to account for the fact that the man whom the worldknew as Mark Twain--dreamy, unpractical, and indifferent to details--everpersisted in acquiring knowledge like that--in the vast, the absolutelylimitless quantity necessary to Mississippi piloting. It lies in thefact that he loved the river in its every mood and aspect and detail, andnot only the river, but a steam boat; and still more, perhaps, thefreedom of the pilot's life and its prestige. Wherever he has written ofthe river--and in one way or another he was always writing of it we feelthe claim of the old captivity and that it still holds him. In theHuckleberry Finn book, during those nights and days with Huck and NiggerJim on the raft--whether in stormlit blackness, still noontide, or thelifting mists of morning--we can fairly "smell" the river, as Huckhimself would say, and we know that it is because the writer loved itwith his heart of hearts and literally drank in its environment andatmosphere during those halcyon pilot days. 

So, in his love lay the secret of his marvelous learning, and it isrecorded (not by himself, but by his teacher) that he was an apt pupil. Horace Bixby has more than once declared:

"Sam was always good-natured, and he had a natural taste for the river. He had a fine memory and never forgot anything I told him. "

Mark Twain himself records a different opinion of his memory, with thesize of its appalling task. It can only be presented in his own words. In the pages quoted he had mastered somewhat of the problem, and hadbegun to take on airs. His chief was a constant menace at such moments:

 One day he turned on me suddenly with this settler:

 "What is the shape of Walnut Bend?"

 He might as well have asked me my grandmother's opinion of protoplasm. I reflected respectfully, and then said I didn't know it had any particular shape. My gun-powdery chief went off with a bang, of course, and then went on loading and firing until he was out of adjectives. .. . I waited. By and by he said:

 "My boy, you've got to know the shape of the river perfectly. It is all there is left to steer by on a very dark night. Everything is blotted out and gone. But mind you, it hasn't the same shape in the night that it has in the daytime. "

 "How on earth am I ever going to learn it, then?"

 "How do you follow a hall at home in the dark? Because you know the shape of it. You can't see it. "

 "Do you mean to say that I've got to know all the million trifling variations of shape in the banks of this interminable river as well as I know the shape of the front hall at home?"

 "On my honor, you've got to know them better than any man ever did know the shapes of the halls in his own house. "

 "I wish I was dead!"

 "Now, I don't want to discourage you, but----"

 "Well, pile it on me; I might as well have it now as another time. "

 "You see, this has got to be learned; there isn't any getting around it. A clear starlight night throws such heavy shadows that, if you didn't know the shape of a shore perfectly, you would claw away from every bunch of timber, because you would take the black shadow of it for a solid cape; and, you see, you would be getting scared to death every fifteen minutes by the watch. You would be fifty yards from shore all the time when you ought to be within fifty feet of it. You can't see a snag in one of those shadows, but you know exactly where it is, and the shape of the river tells you when you are coming to it. Then there's your pitch-dark night; the river is a very different shape on a pitch-dark night from what it is on a starlight night. All shores seem to be straight lines, then, and mighty dim ones, too; and you'd run them for straight lines, only you know better. You boldly drive your boat right into what seems to be a solid, straight wall (you know very well that in reality there is a curve there), and that wall falls back and makes way for you. Then there's your gray mist. You take a night when there's one of these grisly, drizzly, gray mists, and then there isn't any particular shape to a shore. A gray mist would tangle the head of the oldest man that ever lived. Well, then, different kinds of moonlight change the shape of the river in different ways. You see----"

 "Oh, don't say any more, please! Have I got to learn the shape of the river according to all these five hundred thousand different ways? If I tried to carry all that cargo in my head it would make me stoop-shouldered. "

 "No! you only learn the shape of the river; and you learn it with such absolute certainty that you can always steer by the shape that's in your head, and never mind the one that's before your eyes. "

 "Very well, I'll try it; but, after I have learned it, can I depend on it? Will it keep the same form, and not go fooling around?"

 Before Mr. Bixby could answer, Mr. W. Came in to take the watch, and he said:

 "Bixby, you'll have to look out for President's island, and all that country clear away up above the Old Hen and Chickens. The banks are caving and the shape of the shores changing like everything. Why, you wouldn't know the point about 40. You can go up inside the old sycamore snag now. "

 So that question was answered. Here were leagues of shore changing shape. My spirits were down in the mud again. Two things seemed pretty apparent to me. One was that in order to be a pilot a man had got to learn more than any one man ought to be allowed to know; and the other was that he must learn it all over again in a different way every twenty-four hours. 

 I went to work now to learn the shape of the river; and of all the eluding and ungraspable objects that ever I tried to get mind or hands on, that was the chief. I would fasten my eyes upon a sharp, wooded point that projected far into the river some miles ahead of me and go to laboriously photographing its shape upon my brain; and just as I was beginning to succeed to my satisfaction we would draw up to it, and the exasperating thing would begin to melt away and fold back into the bank!

 It was plain that I had got to learn the shape of the river in all the different ways that could be thought of--upside down, wrong end first, inside out, fore-and-aft, and "thort-ships, "--and then know what to do on gray nights when it hadn't any shape at all. So I set about it. In the course of time I began to get the best of this knotty lesson, and my self-complacency moved to the front once more. Mr. Bixby was all fixed and ready to start it to the rear again. He opened on me after this fashion:

 "How much water did we have in the middle crossing at Hole-in-The- Wall, trip before last?"

 I considered this an outrage. I said:

 "Every trip down and up the leadsmen are singing through that tangled place for three-quarters of an hour on a stretch. How do you reckon I can remember such a mess as that?"

 "My boy, you've got to remember it. You've got to remember the exact spot and the exact marks the boat lay in when we had the shoalest water, in every one of the five hundred shoal places between St. Louis and New Orleans; and you mustn't get the shoal soundings and marks of one trip mixed up with the shoal soundings and marks of another, either, for they're not often twice alike. You must keep them separate. "

 When I came to myself again, I said:

 "When I get so that I can do that, I'll be able to raise the dead, and then I won't have to pilot a steamboat to make a living. I want to retire from this business. I want a slush-bucket and a brush; I'm only fit for a roustabout. I haven't got brains enough to be a pilot; and if I had I wouldn't have strength enough to carry them around, unless I went on crutches. "

 "Now drop that! When I say I'll learn a man the river I mean it. And you can depend on it, I'll learn him or kill him. "

We have quoted at length from this chapter because it seems of verypositive importance here. It is one of the most luminous in the book sofar as the mastery of the science of piloting is concerned, and showsbetter than could any other combination of words something of what isrequired of the learner. It does not cover the whole problem, by anymeans--Mark Twain himself could not present that; and even consideringhis old-time love of the river and the pilot's trade, it is stillincredible that a man of his temperament could have persisted, as he did, against such obstacles. 

XXIV

THE RIVER CURRICULUM

He acquired other kinds of knowledge. As the streets of Hannibal inthose early days, and the printing-offices of several cities, had taughthim human nature in various unvarnished aspects, so the river furnishedan added course to that vigorous education. Morally, its atmospherecould not be said to be an improvement on the others. Navigation in theWest had begun with crafts of the flat-boat type--their navigators rude, hardy men, heavy drinkers, reckless fighters, barbaric in their sports, coarse in their wit, profane in everything. Steam-boatmen were thenatural successors of these pioneers--a shade less coarse, a thought lessprofane, a veneer less barbaric. But these things were mainly "abovestairs. " You had but to scratch lightly a mate or a deck-hand to findthe old keel-boatman savagery. Captains were overlords, and pilots kingsin this estate; but they were not angels. In Life on the MississippiClemens refers to his chief's explosive vocabulary and tells us how heenvied the mate's manner of giving an order. It was easier to acquirethose things than piloting, and, on the whole, quicker. One couldimprove upon them, too, with imagination and wit and a natural gift forterms. That Samuel Clemens maintained his promise as to drink and cardsduring those apprentice days is something worth remembering; and if hedid not always restrict his profanity to moments of severe pressure orsift the quality of his wit, we may also remember that he was an extremeexample of a human being, in that formative stage which gathers all asgrist, later to refine it for the uses and delights of men. 

He acquired a vast knowledge of human character. He says:

 In that brief, sharp schooling I got personally and familiarly acquainted with all the different types of human nature that are to be found in fiction, biography, or history. When I find a well- drawn character in fiction or biography, I generally take a warm personal interest in him, for the reason that I have, known him before--met him on the river. 

Undoubtedly the river was a great school for the study of life's broaderphilosophies and humors: philosophies that avoid vague circumlocution andaim at direct and sure results; humors of the rugged and vigorous sortthat in Europe are known as "American" and in America are known as"Western. " Let us be thankful that Mark Twain's school was no less thanit was--and no more. 

The demands of the Missouri River trade took Horace Bixby away from theMississippi, somewhat later, and he consigned his pupil, according tocustom, to another pilot--it is not certain, now, to just which pilot, but probably to Zeb Leavenworth or Beck Jolly, of the John J. Roe. TheRoe was a freight-boat, "as slow as an island and as comfortable as afarm. " In fact, the Roe was owned and conducted by farmers, and SamClemens thought if John Quarles's farm could be set afloat it wouldgreatly resemble that craft in the matter of good-fellowship, hospitality, and speed. It was said of her that up-stream she could evenbeat an island, though down-stream she could never quite overtake thecurrent, but was a "love of a steamboat" nevertheless. The Roe was notlicensed to carry passengers, but she always had a dozen "family guests"aboard, and there was a big boiler-deck for dancing and moonlightfrolics, also a piano in the cabin. The young pilot sometimes played onthe piano and sang to his music songs relating to the "grasshopper on thesweet-potato vine, " or to an old horse by the name of Methusalem:

 Took him down and sold him in Jerusalem, A long time ago. 

There were forty-eight stanzas about this ancient horse, all pretty muchalike; but the assembled company was not likely to be critical, and hisefforts won him laurels. He had a heavenly time on the John J. Roe, andthen came what seemed inferno by contrast. Bixby returned, made a tripor two, then left and transferred him again, this time to a man namedBrown. Brown had a berth on the fine new steamer Pennsylvania, one ofthe handsomest boats on the river, and young Clemens had become a finesteersman, so it is not unlikely that both men at first were gratified bythe arrangement. 

But Brown was a fault-finding, tyrannical chief, ignorant, vulgar, andmalicious. In the Mississippi book the author gives his first interviewwith Brown, also his last one. For good reasons these occasions wereburned into his memory, and they may be accepted as substantiallycorrect. Brown had an offensive manner. His first greeting was a surlyquestion. 

"Are you Horace Bigsby's cub?"

"Bixby" was usually pronounced "Bigsby" on the river, but Brown made itespecially obnoxious and followed it up with questions and comments andorders still more odious. His subordinate soon learned to detest himthoroughly. It was necessary, however, to maintain a respectabledeportment--custom, discipline, even the law, required that--but it musthave been a hard winter and spring the young steersman put in duringthose early months of 1858, restraining himself from the gratification ofslaying Brown. Time would bring revenge--a tragic revenge and at afearful cost; but he could not guess that, and he put in his spare timeplanning punishments of his own. 

 I could imagine myself killing Brown; there was no law against that, and that was the thing I always used to do the moment I was abed. Instead of going over my river in my mind, as was my duty, I threw business aside for pleasure and killed Brown. I killed Brown every night for a month; not in old, stale, commonplace ways, but in new and picturesque ones--ways that were sometimes surprising for freshness of design and ghastly for situation and environment. 

Once when Brown had been more insulting than usual his subordinate wentto bed and killed him in "seventeen different ways--all of them new. "

He had made an effort at first to please Brown, but it was no use. Brownwas the sort of a man that refused to be pleased; no matter how carefullyhis subordinate steered, he as always at him. 

"Here, " he would shout, "where are you going now? Pull her down! Pullher down! Don't you hear me? Dod-derned mud-cat!"

His assistant lost all desire to be obliging to such a person and eventook occasion now and then to stir him up. One day they were steaming upthe river when Brown noticed that the boat seemed to be heading towardsome unusual point. 

"Here, where are you heading for now?" he yelled. "What in nation areyou steerin' at, anyway? Deyned numskull!"

"Why, " said Sam, in unruffled deliberation, "I didn't see much else Icould steer for, and I was heading for that white heifer on the bank. "

"Get away from that wheel! and get outen this pilothouse!" yelled Brown. "You ain't fit to become no pilot!"

Which was what Sam wanted. Any temporary relief from the carping tyrannyof Brown was welcome. 

He had been on the river nearly a year now, and, though universally likedand accounted a fine steersman, he was receiving no wages. There hadbeen small need of money for a while, for he had no board to pay; butclothes wear out at last, and there were certain incidentals. ThePennsylvania made a round trip in about thirty-five days, with a day ortwo of idle time at either end. The young pilot found that he could getnight employment, watching freight on the New Orleans levee, and thusearn from two and a half to three dollars for each night's watch. Sometimes there would be two nights, and with a capital of five or sixdollars he accounted himself rich. 

"It was a desolate experience, " he said, long afterward, "watching therein the dark among those piles of freight; not a sound, not a livingcreature astir. But it was not a profitless one: I used to haveinspirations as I sat there alone those nights. I used to imagine allsorts of situations and possibilities. Those things got into my books byand by and furnished me with many a chapter. I can trace the effect ofthose nights through most of my books in one way and another. "

Many of the curious tales in the latter half of the Mississippi book cameout of those long night-watches. It was a good time to think of suchthings. 

XXV

LOVE-MAKING AND ADVENTURE

Of course, life with Brown was not all sorrow. At either end of the tripthere was respite and recreation. In St. Louis, at Pamela's there waslikely to be company: Hannibal friends mostly, schoolmates--girls, ofcourse. At New Orleans he visited friendly boats, especially the John J. Roe, where he was generously welcomed. One such visit on the Roe henever forgot. A young girl was among the boat's guests that trip--another Laura, fifteen, winning, delightful. They met, and weremutually attracted; in the life of each it was one of those bright spotswhich are likely to come in youth: one of those sudden, brief periods ofromance, love--call it what you will the thing that leads to marriage, ifpursued. 

"I was not four inches from that girl's elbow during our waking hours forthe next three days. "

Then came a sudden interruption: Zeb Leavenworth came flying aftshouting:

"The Pennsylvania is backing out. "

A flutter of emotion, a fleeting good-by, a flight across the decks, aflying leap from romance back to reality, and it was all over. He wroteher, but received no reply. He never saw her again, never heard from herfor forty-eight years, when both were married, widowed, and old. She hadnot received his letter. 

Even on the Pennsylvania life had its interests. A letter dated March 9, 1858, recounts a delightfully dangerous night-adventure in the steamer'syawl, hunting for soundings in the running ice. 

 Then the fun commenced. We made fast a line 20 fathoms long, to the bow of the yawl, and put the men (both crews) to it like horses on the shore. Brown, the pilot, stood in the bow, with an oar, to keep her head out, and I took the tiller. We would start the men, and all would go well till the yawl would bring up on a heavy cake of ice, and then the men would drop like so many tenpins, while Brown assumed the horizontal in the bottom of the boat. After an hour's hard work we got back, with ice half an inch thick on the oars. Sent back and warped up the other yawl, and then George (George Ealer, the other pilot) and myself took a double crew of fresh men and tried it again. This time we found the channel in less than half an hour, and landed on an island till the Pennsylvania came along and took us off. The next day was colder still. I was out in the yawl twice, and then we got through, but the infernal steamboat came near running over us. .. . We sounded Hat Island, warped up around a bar, and sounded again--but in order to understand our situation you will have to read Dr. Kane. It would have been impossible to get back to the boat. But the Maria Denning was aground at the head of the island--they hailed us--we ran alongside, and they hoisted us in and thawed us out. We had then been out in the yawl from four o'clock in the morning till half past nine without being near a fire. There was a thick coating of ice over men, and yawl, ropes and everything else, and we looked like rock- candy statuary. 

This was the sort of thing he loved in those days. We feel the writer'sevident joy and pride in it. In the same letter he says: "I can'tcorrespond with the paper, because when one is learning the river he isnot allowed to do or think about anything else. " Then he mentions hisbrother Henry, and we get the beginning of that tragic episode for which, though blameless, Samuel Clemens always held himself responsible. 

 Henry was doing little or nothing here (St. Louis), and I sent him to our clerk to work his way for a trip, measuring wood-piles, counting coal-boxes, and doing other clerkly duties, which he performed satisfactorily. He may go down with us again. 

Henry Clemens was about twenty at this time, a handsome, attractive boyof whom his brother was lavishly fond and proud. He did go on the nexttrip and continued to go regularly after that, as third clerk in line ofpromotion. It was a bright spot in those hard days with Brown to haveHenry along. The boys spent a good deal of their leisure with the otherpilot, George Ealer, who "was as kindhearted as Brown wasn't, " and quotedShakespeare and Goldsmith, and played the flute to his fascinated andinspiring audience. These were things worth while. The young steersmancould not guess that the shadow of a long sorrow was even then stretchingacross the path ahead. 

Yet in due time he received a warning, a remarkable and impressivewarning, though of a kind seldom heeded. One night, when thePennsylvania lay in St. Louis, he slept at his sister's house and hadthis vivid dream:

He saw Henry, a corpse, lying in a metallic burial case in thesitting-room, supported on two chairs. On his breast lay a bouquet offlowers, white, with a single crimson bloom in the center. 

When he awoke, it was morning, but the dream was so vivid that hebelieved it real. Perhaps something of the old hypnotic condition wasupon him, for he rose and dressed, thinking he would go in and look athis dead brother. Instead, he went out on the street in the earlymorning and had walked to the middle of the block before it suddenlyflashed upon him that it was only a dream. He bounded back, rushed tothe sitting-room, and felt a great trembling revulsion of joy when hefound it really empty. He told Pamela the dream, then put it out of hismind as quickly as he could. The Pennsylvania sailed from St. Louis asusual, and made a safe trip to New Orleans. 

A safe trip, but an eventful one; on it occurred that last interview withBrown, already mentioned. It is recorded in the Mississippi book, butcannot be omitted here. Somewhere down the river (it was in Eagle Bend)Henry appeared on the hurricane deck to bring an order from the captainfor a landing to be made a little lower down. Brown was somewhat deaf, but would never confess it. He may not have understood the order; at allevents he gave no sign of having heard it, and went straight ahead. Hedisliked Henry as he disliked everybody of finer grain than himself, andin any case was too arrogant to ask for a repetition. They were passingthe landing when Captain Klinefelter appeared on deck and called to himto let the boat come around, adding:

"Didn't Henry tell you to land here?"

"No, sir. "

Captain. Klinefelter turned to Sam:

"Didn't you hear him?"

"Yes, sir. "

Brown said: "Shut your mouth! You never heard anything of the kind. "

By and by Henry came into the pilot-house, unaware of any trouble. Brownset upon him in his ugliest manner. 

"Here, why didn't you tell me we had got to land at that plantation?" hedemanded. 

Henry was always polite, always gentle. 

"I did tell you, Mr. Brown. "

"It's a lie. "

Sam Clemens could stand Brown's abuse of himself, but not of Henry. Hesaid: "You lie yourself. He did tell you. "

Brown was dazed for a moment and then he shouted:

"I'll attend to your case in half a minute!" and ordered Henry out of thepilot-house. 

The boy had started, when Brown suddenly seized him by the collar andstruck him in the face. --[In the Mississippi book the writer states thatBrown started to strike Henry with a large piece of coal; but, in aletter written soon after the occurrence to Mrs. Orion Clemens, he says:"Henry started out of the pilot-house-Brown jumped up and collared him--turned him half-way around and struck him in the face!-and him nearlysix feet high-struck my little brother. I was wild from that moment. Ileft the boat to steer herself, and avenged the insult--and the captainsaid I was right. "]--Instantly Sam was upon Brown, with a heavy stool, and stretched him on the floor. Then all the bitterness and indignationthat had been smoldering for months flamed up, and, leaping upon Brownand holding him with his knees, he pounded him with his fists untilstrength and fury gave out. Brown struggled free, then, and with pilotinstinct sprang to the wheel, for the vessel had been drifting and mighthave got into trouble. Seeing there was no further danger, he seized aspy-glass as a weapon. 

"Get out of this here pilot-house, " he raged. 

But his subordinate was not afraid of him now. 

"You should leave out the 'here, '" he drawled, critically. "It isunderstood, and not considered good English form. "

"Don't you give me none of your airs, " yelled Brown. "I ain't going tostand nothing more from you. "

"You should say, 'Don't give me any of your airs, '" Sam said, sweetly, "and the last half of your sentence almost defies correction. "

A group of passengers and white-aproned servants, assembled on the deckforward, applauded the victor. 

Brown turned to the wheel, raging and growling. Clemens went below, where he expected Captain Klinefelter to put him in irons, perhaps, forit was thought to be felony to strike a pilot. The officer took him intohis private room and closed the door. At first he looked at the culpritthoughtfully, then he made some inquiries:

 "Did you strike him first?" Captain Klinefelter asked. 

 "Yes, sir. "

 "What with?"

 "A stool, sir. "

 "Hard?"

 "Middling, sir. "

 "Did it knock him down?"

 "He--he fell, sir. "

 "Did you follow it up? Did you do anything further?"

 "Yes, sir. "

 "What did you do?"

 "Pounded him, sir. "

 "Pounded him?"

 "Yes, sir. "

 "Did you pound him much--that is, severely?"

 "One might call it that, sir, maybe. "

 "I am deuced glad of it! Hark ye, never mention that I said that. You have been guilty of a great crime; and don't ever be guilty of it again on this boat, but--lay for him ashore! Give him a good sound thrashing; do you hear? I'll pay the expenses. "--["Life on the Mississippi. "]

Captain Klinefelter told him to clear out, then, and the culprit heardhim enjoying himself as the door closed behind him. Brown, of course, forbade him the pilothouse after that, and he spent the rest of the trip"an emancipated slave" listening to George Ealer's flute and his readingsfrom Goldsmith and Shakespeare; playing chess with him sometimes, andlearning a trick which he would use himself in the long after-years--thatof taking back the last move and running out the game differently when hesaw defeat. 

Brown swore that he would leave the boat at New Orleans if Sam Clemensremained on it, and Captain Klinefelter told Brown to go. Then whenanother pilot could not be obtained to fill his place, the captainoffered to let Clemens himself run the daylight watches, thus showing hisconfidence in the knowledge of the young steersman, who had been only alittle more than a year at the wheel. But Clemens himself had lessconfidence and advised the captain to keep Brown back to St. Louis. Hewould follow up the river by another boat and resume his place assteersman when Brown was gone. Without knowing it, he may have saved hislife by that decision. 

It is doubtful if he remembered his recent disturbing dream, though someforeboding would seem to have hung over him the night before thePennsylvania sailed. Henry liked to join in the night-watches on thelevee when he had finished his duties, and the brothers often walked theround chatting together. On this particular night the elder spoke ofdisaster on the river. Finally he said:

"In case of accident, whatever you do, don't lose your head--thepassengers will do that. Rush for the hurricane deck and to thelife-boat, and obey the mate's orders. When the boat is launched, helpthe women and children into it. Don't get in yourself. The river isonly a mile wide. You can swim ashore easily enough. "

It was good manly advice, but it yielded a long harvest of sorrow. 

XXVI

THE TRAGEDY OF THE "PENNSYLVANIA"

Captain Klinefelter obtained his steersman a pass on the A. T. Lacey, which left two days behind the Pennsylvania. This was pleasant, for BartBowen had become captain of that fine boat. The Lacey touched atGreenville, Mississippi, and a voice from the landing shouted:

"The Pennsylvania is blown up just below Memphis, at Ship Island! Onehundred and fifty lives lost!"

Nothing further could be learned there, but that evening at Napoleon aMemphis extra reported some of the particulars. Henry Clemens's name wasmentioned as one of those, who had escaped injury. Still farther up theriver they got a later extra. Henry was again mentioned; this time asbeing scalded beyond recovery. By the time they reached Memphis theyknew most of the details: At six o'clock that warm mid-June morning, while loading wood from a large flat-boat sixty miles below Memphis, fourout of eight of the Pennsylvania's boilers had suddenly exploded withfearful results. All the forward end of the boat had been blown out. Many persons had been killed outright; many more had been scalded andcrippled and would die. It was one of those hopeless, wholesalesteamboat slaughters which for more than a generation had made theMississippi a river of death and tears. 

Samuel Clemens found his brother stretched upon a mattress on the floorof an improvised hospital--a public hall--surrounded by more than thirtyothers more or less desperately injured. He was told that Henry hadinhaled steam and that his body was badly scalded. His case wasconsidered hopeless. 

Henry was one of those who had been blown into the river by theexplosion. He had started to swim for the shore, only a few hundredyards away, but presently, feeling no pain and believing himself unhurt, he had turned back to assist in the rescue of the others. What he didafter that could not be clearly learned. The vessel had taken fire; therescued were being carried aboard the big wood-boat still attached to thewreck. The fire soon raged so that the rescuers and all who could besaved were driven into the wood-flat, which was then cut adrift andlanded. There the sufferers had to lie in the burning sun many hoursuntil help could come. Henry was among those who were insensible by thattime. Perhaps he had really been uninjured at first and had been scaldedin his work of rescue; it will never be known. 

His brother, hearing these things, was thrown into the deepest agony andremorse. He held himself to blame for everything; for Henry's presenceon the boat; for his advice concerning safety of others; for his ownabsence when he might have been there to help and protect the boy. Hewanted to telegraph at once to his mother and sister to come, but thedoctors persuaded him to wait--just why, he never knew. He sent word ofthe disaster to Orion, who by this time had sold out in Keokuk and was inEast Tennessee studying law; then he set himself to the all but hopelesstask of trying to bring Henry back to life. Many Memphis ladies wereacting as nurses, and one, a Miss Wood, attracted by the boy's youth andstriking features, joined in the desperate effort. Some medical studentshad come to assist the doctors, and one of these also took specialinterest in Henry's case. Dr. Peyton, an old Memphis practitioner, declared that with such care the boy might pull through. 

But on the fourth night he was considered to be dying. Half deliriouswith grief and the strain of watching, Samuel Clemens wrote to his motherand to his sister-in-law in Tennessee. The letter to Orion Clemens'swife has been preserved. 

 MEMPHIS, TENN. , Friday, June 18, 1858. 

 DEAR SISTER MOLLIE, --Long before this reaches you my poor Henry--my darling, my pride, my glory, my all will have finished his blameless career, and the light of my life will have gone out in utter darkness. The horrors of three days have swept over me--they have blasted my youth and left me an old man before my time. Mollie, there are gray hairs in my head to-night. For forty-eight hours I labored at the bedside of my poor burned and bruised but uncomplaining brother, and then the star of my hope went out and left me in the gloom of despair. Men take me by the hand and congratulate me, and call me "lucky" because I was not on the Pennsylvania when she blew up! May God forgive them, for they know not what they say. 

 I was on the Pennsylvania five minutes before she left N. Orleans, and I must tell you the truth, Mollie--three hundred human beings perished by that fearful disaster. But may God bless Memphis, the noblest city on the face of the earth. She has done her duty by these poor afflicted creatures--especially Henry, for he has had five--aye, ten, fifteen, twenty times the care and attention that any one else has had. Dr. Peyton, the best physician in Memphis (he is exactly like the portraits of Webster), sat by him for 36 hours. There are 32 scalded men in that room, and you would know Dr. Peyton better than I can describe him if you could follow him around and hear each man murmur as he passes, "May the God of Heaven bless you, Doctor!" The ladies have done well, too. Our second mate, a handsome, noble-hearted young fellow, will die. Yesterday a beautiful girl of 15 stooped timidly down by his side and handed him a pretty bouquet. The poor suffering boy's eyes kindled, his lips quivered out a gentle "God bless you, Miss, " and he burst into tears. He made them write her name on a card for him, that he might not forget it. 

 Pray for me, Mollie, and pray for my poor sinless brother. Your unfortunate brother, SAML. L. CLEMENS. 

 P. S. --I got here two days after Henry. 

But, alas, this was not all, nor the worst. It would seem that SamuelClemens's cup of remorse must be always overfull. The final draft thatwould embitter his years was added the sixth night after the accident--the night that Henry died. He could never bring himself to write it. He was never known to speak of it but twice. 

Henry had rallied soon after the foregoing letter had been mailed, andimproved slowly that day and the next: Dr. Peyton came around abouteleven o'clock on the sixth night and made careful examination. He said:

"I believe he is out of danger and will get well. He is likely to berestless during the night; the groans and fretting of the others willdisturb him. If he cannot rest without it, tell the physician in chargeto give him one-eighth of a grain of morphine. "

The boy did wake during the night, and was disturbed by the complainingof the other sufferers. His brother told the young medical student incharge what the doctor had said about the morphine. But morphine was anew drug then; the student hesitated, saying:

"I have no way of measuring. I don't know how much an eighth of a grainwould be. "

Henry grew rapidly worse--more and more restless. His brother was halfbeside himself with the torture of it. He went to the medical student. 

"If you have studied drugs, " he said, "you ought to be able to judge aneighth of a grain of morphine. "

The young man's courage was over-swayed. He yielded and ladled out inthe old-fashioned way, on the point of a knife-blade, what he believed tobe the right amount. Henry immediately sank into a heavy sleep. He diedbefore morning. His chance of life had been infinitesimal, and his deathwas not necessarily due to the drug, but Samuel Clemens, unsparing in hisself-blame, all his days carried the burden of it. 

He saw the boy taken to the dead room, then the long strain of grief, thedays and nights without sleep, the ghastly realization of the endovercame him. A citizen of Memphis took him away in a kind of daze andgave him a bed in his house, where he fell into a stupor of fatigue andsurrender. It was many hours before he woke; when he did, at last, hedressed and went to where Henry lay. The coffin provided for the deadwere of unpainted wood, but the youth and striking face of Henry Clemenshad aroused a special interest. The ladies of Memphis had made up a fundof sixty dollars and bought for him a metallic case. Samuel Clemensentering, saw his brother lying exactly as he had seen him in his dream, lacking only the bouquet of white flowers with its crimson center--adetail made complete while he stood there, for at that moment an elderlylady came in with a large white bouquet, and in the center of it was asingle red rose. 

Orion arrived from Tennessee, and the brothers took their sorrowfulburden to St. Louis, subsequently to Hannibal, his old home. The deathof this lovely boy was a heavy sorrow to the community where he wasknown, for he had been a favorite with all. --[For a fine characterizationof Henry Clemens the reader is referred to a letter written by OrionClemens to Miss Wood. See Appendix A, at the end of the last volume. ]

From Hannibal the family returned to Pamela's home in St. Louis. Thereone night Orion heard his brother moaning and grieving and walking thefloor of his room. By and by Sam came in to where Orion was. He couldendure it no longer, he said; he must, "tell somebody. "

Then he poured all the story of that last tragic night. It has been setdown here because it accounts for much in his after-life. It magnifiedhis natural compassion for the weakness and blunders of humanity, whileit increased the poor opinion implanted by the Scotchman Macfarlane ofthe human being as a divine invention. Two of Mark Twain's chiefcharacteristics were--consideration for the human species, and contemptfor it. 

In many ways he never overcame the tragedy of Henry's death. He neverreally looked young again. Gray hairs had come, as he said, and they didnot disappear. His face took on the serious, pathetic look which fromthat time it always had in repose. At twenty-three he looked thirty. Atthirty he looked nearer forty. After that the discrepancy in age andlooks became less notable. In vigor, complexion, and temperament he wasregarded in later life as young for his years, but never in looks. 

XXVII

THE PILOT

The young pilot returned to the river as steersman for George Ealer, whomhe loved, and in September of that year obtained a full license asMississippi River pilot. --[In Life on the Mississippi he gives his periodof learning at from two to two and a half years; but documentary evidenceas well as Mr. Bixby's testimony places the apprenticeship at eighteenmonths]--Bixby had returned by this time, and they were again together, first on the Crescent City, later on a fine new boat called the New FallsCity. Clemens was still a steersman when Bixby returned; but as soon ashis license was granted (September 9, 1858) his old chief took him asfull partner. 

He was a pilot at last. In eighteen months he had packed away in hishead all the multitude of volatile statistics and acquired thatconfidence and courage which made him one of the elect, a riversovereign. He knew every snag and bank and dead tree and reef in allthose endless miles between St. Louis and New Orleans, every cut-off andcurrent, every depth of water--the whole story--by night and by day. Hecould smell danger in the dark; he could read the surface of the water asan open page. At twenty-three he had acquired a profession whichsurpassed all others for absolute sovereignty and yielded an income equalto that then earned by the Vice-President of the United States. Boysgenerally finish college at about that age, but it is not likely that anyboy ever finished college with the mass of practical information andtraining that was stored away in Samuel Clemens's head, or with hisknowledge of human nature, his preparation for battle with the world. 

"Not only was he a pilot, but a good one. " These are Horace Bixby'swords, and he added:

"It is the fashion to-day to disparage Sam's piloting. Men who were bornsince he was on the river and never saw him will tell you that Sam wasnever much of a pilot. Most of them will tell you that he was never apilot at all. As a matter of fact, Sam was a fine pilot, and in a daywhen piloting on the Mississippi required a great deal more brains andskill and application than it does now. There were no signal-lightsalong the shore in those days, and no search-lights on the vessels;everything was blind, and on a dark, misty night in a river full of snagsand shifting sand--bars and changing shores, a pilot's judgment had to befounded on absolute certainty. "

He had plenty of money now. He could help his mother with a liberalhand, and he did it. He helped Orion, too, with money and with advice. From a letter written toward the end of the year, we gather the newconditions. Orion would seem to have been lamenting over prospects, andthe young pilot, strong and exalted in his new estate, urges him torenewed consistent effort:

 What is a government without energy?--[he says]--. And what is a man without energy? Nothing--nothing at all. What is the grandest thing in "Paradise Lost"--the Arch-Fiend's terrible energy! What was the greatest feature in Napoleon's character? His unconquerable energy! Sum all the gifts that man is endowed with, and we give our greatest share of admiration to his energy. And to-day, if I were a heathen, I would rear a statue to Energy, and fall down and worship it!

 I want a man to--I want you to--take up a line of action, and follow it out, in spite of the very devil. 

Orion and his wife had returned to Keokuk by this time, waiting forsomething in the way of a business opportunity. 

His pilot brother, wrote him more than once letters of encouragement andcouncil. Here and there he refers to the tragedy of Henry's death, andthe shadow it has cast upon his life; but he was young, he wassuccessful, his spirits were naturally exuberant. In the exhilaration ofyouth and health and success he finds vent at times in that natural humanoutlet, self-approval. He not only exhibits this weakness, but confessesit with characteristic freedom. 

 Putting all things together, I begin to think I am rather lucky than otherwise--a notion which I was slow to take up. The other night I was about to "round to" for a storm, but concluded that I could find a smoother bank somewhere. I landed five miles below. The storm came, passed away and did not injure us. Coming up, day before yesterday, I looked at the spot I first chose, and half the trees on the bank were torn to shreds. We couldn't have lived 5 minutes in such a tornado. And I am also lucky in having a berth, while all the other young pilots are idle. This is the luckiest circumstance that ever befell me. Not on account of the wages--for that is a secondary consideration-but from the fact that the City of Memphis is the largest boat in the trade, and the hardest to pilot, and consequently I can get a reputation on her, which is a thing I never could accomplish on a transient boat. I can "bank" in the neighborhood of $100 a month on her, and that will satisfy me for the present (principally because the other youngsters are sucking their fingers). Bless me! what a pleasure there is in revenge!--and what vast respect Prosperity commands! Why, six months ago, I could enter the "Rooms, " and receive only the customary fraternal greeting now they say, "Why, how are you, old fellow--when did you get in?"

 And the young pilots who use to tell me, patronizingly, that I could never learn the river cannot keep from showing a little of their chagrin at seeing me so far ahead of them. Permit me to "blow my horn, " for I derive a living pleasure from these things, and I must confess that when I go to pay my dues, I rather like to let the d---d rascals get a glimpse of a hundred-dollar bill peeping out from amongst notes of smaller dimensions whose face I do not exhibit! You will despise this egotism, but I tell you there is a "stern joy" in it. 

We are dwelling on this period of Mark Twain's life, for it was a periodthat perhaps more than any other influenced his future years. He becamecompletely saturated with the river its terms, its memories, itsinfluence remained a definite factor in his personality to the end of hisdays. Moreover, it was his first period of great triumph. Where beforehe had been a subaltern not always even a wage-earner--now all in amoment he had been transformed into a high chief. The fullest ambitionof his childhood had been realized--more than realized, for in that dayhe had never dreamed of a boat or of an income of such statelyproportions. Of great personal popularity, and regarded as a safe pilot, he had been given one of the largest, most difficult of boats. Single-handed and alone he had fought his way into the company of kings. 

And we may pardon his vanity. He could hardly fail to feel his glory andrevel in it and wear it as a halo, perhaps, a little now and then in theAssociation Rooms. To this day he is remembered as a figure there, though we may believe, regardless of his own statement, that it was notentirely because of his success. As the boys of Hannibal had gatheredaround to listen when Sam Clemens began to speak, so we may be certainthat the pilots at St. Louis and New Orleans laid aside other things whenhe had an observation to make or a tale to tell. 

 He was much given to spinning yarns--[writes one associate of those days]--so funny that his hearers were convulsed, and yet all the time his own face was perfectly sober. If he laughed at all, it must have been inside. It would have killed his hearers to do that. Occasionally some of his droll yarns would get into the papers. He may have written them himself. 

Another riverman of those days has recalled a story he heard Sam Clemenstell:

 We were speaking of presence of mind in accidents--we were always talking of such things; then he said:

 "Boys, I had great presence of mind once. It was at a fire. An old man leaned out of a four-story building calling for help. Everybody in the crowd below looked up, but nobody did anything. The ladders weren't long enough. Nobody had any presence of mind--nobody but me. I came to the rescue. I yelled for a rope. When it came I threw the old man the end of it. He caught it and I told him to tie it around his waist. He did so, and I pulled him down. "

This was one of the stories that got into print and traveled far. Perhaps, as the old pilot suggests, he wrote some of them himself, forHorace Bixby remembers that "Sam was always scribbling when not at thewheel. "

But if he published any work in those river-days he did not acknowledgeit later--with one exception. The exception was not intended forpublication, either. It was a burlesque written for the amusement of hisimmediate friends. He has told the story himself, more than once, but itbelongs here for the reason that some where out of the generalcircumstance of it there originated a pseudonym, one day to become thebest-known in the hemispheres the name Mark Twain. 

That terse, positive, peremptory, dynamic pen-name was first used by anold pilot named Isaiah Sellers--a sort of "oldest inhabitant" of theriver, who made the other pilots weary with the scope and antiquity ofhis reminiscent knowledge. He contributed paragraphs of generalinformation and Nestorian opinions to the New Orleans Picayune, andsigned them "Mark Twain. " They were quaintly egotistical in tone, usually beginning: "My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of NewOrleans, " and reciting incidents and comparisons dating as far back as1811. 

Captain Sellers naturally was regarded as fair game by the young pilots, who amused themselves by imitating his manner and general attitude ofspeech. But Clemens went further; he wrote at considerable length abroadly burlesque imitation signed "Sergeant Fathom, " with anintroduction which referred to the said Fathom as "one of the oldest cubpilots on the river. " The letter that followed related a perfectlyimpossible trip, supposed to have been made in 1763 by the steamer "theold first Jubilee" with a "Chinese captain and a Choctaw crew. " It is agem of its kind, and will bear reprint in full today. --[See Appendix B, at the end of the last volume. ]

The burlesque delighted Bart Bowen, who was Clemens's pilot partner onthe Edward J. Gay at the time. He insisted on showing it to others andfinally upon printing it. Clemens was reluctant, but consented. Itappeared in the True Delta (May 8 or 9, 1859), and was widely andboisterously enjoyed. 

It broke Captain Sellers's literary heart. He never contributed anotherparagraph. Mark Twain always regretted the whole matter deeply, and hisown revival of the name was a sort of tribute to the old man he hadthoughtlessly wounded. If Captain Sellers has knowledge of materialmatters now, he is probably satisfied; for these things brought to him, and to the name he had chosen, what he could never himself have achieved--immortality. 

XXVIII

PILOTING AND PROPHECY

Those who knew Samuel Clemens best in those days say that he was aslender, fine-looking man, well dressed--even dandified--given to patentleathers, blue serge, white duck, and fancy striped shirts. Old for hisyears, he heightened his appearance at times by wearing his beard in theatrocious mutton-chop fashion, then popular, but becoming to no one, least of all to him. The pilots regarded him as a great reader--astudent of history, travels, literature, and the sciences--a young manwhom it was an education as well as an entertainment to know. When notat the wheel, he was likely to be reading or telling yarns in theAssociation Rooms. 

He began the study of French one day when he passed a school oflanguages, where three tongues, French, German, and Italian, were taught, one in each of three rooms. The price was twenty-five dollars for onelanguage, or three for fifty dollars. The student was provided with aset of cards for each room and supposed to walk from one apartment toanother, changing tongues at each threshold. With his unusual enthusiasmand prodigality, the young pilot decided to take all three languages, butafter the first two or three round trips concluded that for the presentFrench would do. He did not return to the school, but kept his cards andbought text-books. He must have studied pretty faithfully when he wasoff watch and in port, for his river note-book contains a Frenchexercise, all neatly written, and it is from the Dialogues of Voltaire. 

This old note-book is interesting for other things. The notes are nolonger timid, hesitating memoranda, but vigorous records made with thedash of assurance that comes from confidence and knowledge, and with theauthority of one in supreme command. Under the head of "2d high-watertrip--Jan. , 1861--Alonzo Child, " we have the story of a rising river withits overflowing banks, its blind passages and cut-offs--all thecircumstance and uncertainty of change. 

 Good deal of water all over Coles Creek Chute, 12 or 15 ft. Bank --could have gone up shore above General Taylor's--too much drift. .. . 

 Night--didn't run either 77 or 76 towheads--8 ft. Bank on main shore Ozark Chute. .. . 

And so on page after page of cryptographic memoranda. It means littleenough to the lay reader, yet one gets an impression somehow of theswirling, turbulent water and a lonely figure in that high glassed-inplace peering into the dark for blind land-marks and possible dangers, picking his way up the dim, hungry river of which he must know every footas well as a man knows the hall of his own home. All the qualificationsmust come into play, then memory, judgment, courage, and the high art ofsteering. "Steering is a very high, art, " he says; "one must not keep arudder dragging across a boat's stern if he wants to get up the riverfast. "

He had an example of the perfection of this art one misty night on theAlonzo Child. Nearly fifty years later, sitting on his veranda in thedark, he recalled it. He said:

"There was a pilot in those days by the name of Jack Leonard who was aperfectly wonderful creature. I do not know that Jack knew anymore aboutthe river than most of us and perhaps could not read the water anybetter, but he had a knack of steering away ahead of our ability, and Ithink he must have had an eye that could see farther into the darkness. 

"I had never seen Leonard steer, but I had heard a good deal about it. Ihad heard it said that the crankiest old tub afloat--one that would killany other man to handle--would obey and be as docile as a child when JackLeonard took the wheel. I had a chance one night to verify that formyself. We were going up the river, and it was one of the nastiestnights I ever saw. Besides that, the boat was loaded in such a way thatshe steered very hard, and I was half blind and crazy trying to locatethe safe channel, and was pulling my arms out to keep her in it. It wasone of those nights when everything looks the same whichever way youlook: just two long lines where the sky comes down to the trees and wherethe trees meet the water with all the trees precisely the same height--all planted on the same day, as one of the boys used to put it--and nota thing to steer by except the knowledge in your head of the real shapeof the river. Some of the boats had what they call a 'night hawk' on thejackstaff, a thing which you could see when it was in the right positionagainst the sky or the water, though it seldom was in the right positionand was generally pretty useless. 

"I was in a bad way that night and wondering how I could ever get throughit, when the pilot-house door opened, and Jack Leonard walked in. He wasa passenger that trip, and I had forgotten he was aboard. I was justabout in the worst place and was pulling the boat first one way, thenanother, running the wheel backward and forward, and climbing it like asquirrel. 

"'Sam, ' he said, 'let me take the wheel. Maybe I have been over thisplace since you have. '

"I didn't argue the question. Jack took the wheel, gave it a little turnone way, then a little turn the other; that old boat settled down asquietly as a lamb--went right along as if it had been broad daylight in ariver without snags, bars, bottom, or banks, or anything that one couldpossibly hit. I never saw anything so beautiful. He stayed my watch outfor me, and I hope I was decently grateful. I have never forgotten it. "

The old note-book contained the record of many such nights as that; butthere were other nights, too, when the stars were blazing out, or whenthe moon on the water made the river a wide mysterious way of speculativedreams. He was always speculating; the planets and the remote suns werealways a marvel to him. A love of astronomy--the romance of it, its vastdistances, and its possibilities--began with those lonely river-watchesand never waned to his last day. For a time a great comet blazed in theheavens, a "wonderful sheaf of light" that glorified his lonely watch. Night after night he watched it as it developed and then grew dim, and heread eagerly all the comet literature that came to his hand, then orafterward. He speculated of many things: of life, death, the reason ofexistence, of creation, the ways of Providence and Destiny. It was afruitful time for such meditation; out of such vigils grew those largerphilosophies that would find expression later, when the years hadconferred the magic gift of phrase. 

Life lay all ahead of him then, and during those still watches he musthave revolved many theories of how the future should be met and mastered. In the old notebook there still remains a well-worn clipping, the wordsof some unknown writer, which he had preserved and may have consulted asa sort of creed. It is an interesting little document--a prophetic one, the reader may concede:

 HOW TO TAKE LIFE. --Take it just as though it was--as it is--an earnest, vital, and important affair. Take it as though you were born to the task of performing a merry part in it--as though the world had awaited for your coming. Take it as though it was a grand opportunity to do and achieve, to carry forward great and good schemes; to help and cheer a suffering, weary, it may be heartbroken, brother. Now and then a man stands aside from the crowd, labors earnestly, steadfastly, confidently, and straightway becomes famous for wisdom, intellect, skill, greatness of some sort. The world wonders, admires, idolizes, and it only illustrates what others may do if they take hold of life with a purpose. The miracle, or the power that elevates the few, is to be found in their industry, application, and perseverance under the promptings of a brave, determined spirit. 

The old note-book contains no record of disasters. Horace Bixby, whoshould know, has declared:

"Sam Clemens never had an accident either as a steersman or as a pilot, except once when he got aground for a few hours in the bagasse (cane)smoke, with no damage to anybody though of course there was some goodluck in that too, for the best pilots do not escape trouble, now andthen. "

Bixby and Clemens were together that winter on the Alonzo Child, and aletter to Orion contains an account of great feasting which the twoenjoyed at a "French restaurant" in New Orleans--"dissipating on aten-dollar dinner--tell it not to Ma!"--where they had sheepshead fish, oysters, birds, mushrooms, and what not, "after which the day was too fargone to do anything. " So it appears that he was not always readingMacaulay or studying French and astronomy, but sometimes went frivolingwith his old chief, now his chum, always his dear friend. 

Another letter records a visit with Pamela to a picture-gallery in St. Louis where was being exhibited Church's "Heart of the Andes. " Hedescribes the picture in detail and with vast enthusiasm. 

"I have seen it several times, " he concludes, "but it is always a newpicture--totally new--you seem to see nothing the second time that yousaw the first. "

Further along he tells of having taken his mother and the girls--hiscousin Ella Creel and another--for a trip down the river to New Orleans. 

 Ma was delighted with her trip, but she was disgusted with the girls for allowing me to embrace and kiss them--and she was horrified at the 'schottische' as performed by Miss Castle and myself. She was perfectly willing for me to dance until 12 o'clock at the imminent peril of my going to sleep on the after-watch--but then she would top off with a very inconsistent sermon on dancing in general; ending with a terrific broadside aimed at that heresy of heresies, the 'schottische'. 

 I took Ma and the girls in a carriage round that portion of New Orleans where the finest gardens and residences are to be seen, and, although it was a blazing hot, dusty day, they seemed hugely delighted. To use an expression which is commonly ignored in polite society, they were "hell-bent" on stealing some of the luscious- looking oranges from branches which overhung the fence, but I restrained them. 

In another letter of this period we get a hint of the future Mark Twain. It was written to John T. Moore, a young clerk on the John J. Roe. 

 What a fool old Adam was. Had everything his own way; had succeeded in gaining the love of the best-looking girl in the neighborhood, but yet, unsatisfied with his conquest, he had to eat a miserable little apple. Ah, John, if you had been in his place you would not have eaten a mouthful of the apple--that is, if it had required any exertion. I have noticed that you shun exertion. There comes in the difference between us. I court exertion. I love work. Why, sir, when I have a piece of work to perform, I go away to myself, sit down in the shade, and muse over the coming enjoyment. Sometimes I am so industrious that I muse too long. 

There remains another letter of this period--a sufficiently curiousdocument. There was in those days a famous New Orleans clairvoyant knownas Madame Caprell. Some of the young pilot's friends had visited herand obtained what seemed to be satisfying results. From time to timethey had urged him to visit the fortune-teller, and one idle day heconcluded to make the experiment. As soon as he came away he wrote toOrion in detail. 

 She's a very pleasant little lady--rather pretty--about 28--say 5 feet 2 1/4--would weigh 116--has black eyes and hair--is polite and intelligent--used good language, and talks much faster than I do. 

 She invited me into the little back parlor, closed the door; and we were alone. We sat down facing each other. Then she asked my age. Then she put her hands before her eyes a moment, and commenced talking as if she had a good deal to say and not much time to say it in. Something after this style:

 'Madame. ' Yours is a watery planet; you gain your livelihood on the water; but you should have been a lawyer--there is where your talents lie; you might have distinguished yourself as an orator, or as an editor--, you have written a great deal; you write well--but you are rather out of practice; no matter--you will be in practice some day; you have a superb constitution, and as excellent health as any man in the world; you have great powers of endurance; in your profession your strength holds out against the longest sieges without flagging; still, the upper part of your lungs, the top of them, is slightly affected--you must take care of yourself; you do not drink, but you use entirely too much tobacco; and you must stop it; mind, not moderate, but stop the use of it, totally; then I can almost promise you 86, when you will surely die; otherwise, look out for 28, 31, 34, 47, and 65; be careful--for you are not of a long- lived race, that is, on your father's side; you are the only healthy member of your family, and the only one in it who has anything like the certainty of attaining to a great age--so, stop using tobacco, and be careful of yourself. .. . In some respects you take after your father, but you are much more like your mother, who belongs to the long-lived, energetic side of the house. .. . You never brought all your energies to bear upon any subject but what you accomplished it --for instance, you are self-made, self-educated. 

 'S. L. C. ' Which proves nothing. 

 'Madame. ' Don't interrupt. When you sought your present occupation, you found a thousand obstacles in your way--obstacles unknown--not even suspected by any save you and me, since you keep such matter to yourself--but you fought your way, and hid the long struggle under a mask of cheerfulness, which saved your friends anxiety on your account. To do all this requires the qualities which I have named. 

 'S. L. C. ' You flatter well, Madame. 

 'Madame. ' Don't interrupt. Up to within a short time you had always lived from hand to mouth--now you are in easy circumstances --for which you need give credit to no one but yourself. The turning-point in your life occurred in 1840-7-8. 

 'S. L. C. ' Which was?

 'Madame. ' A death, perhaps, and this threw you upon the world and made you what you are; it was always intended that you should make yourself; therefore, it was well that this calamity occurred as early as it did. You will never die of water, although your career upon it in the future seems well sprinkled with misfortune. You will continue upon the water for some time yet; you will not retire finally until ten years from now. .. . What is your brother's age? 23--and a lawyer? and in pursuit of an office? Well, he stands a better chance than the other two, and he may get it; he is too visionary--is always flying off on a new hobby; this will never do --tell him I said so. He is a good lawyer--a very good lawyer--and a fine speaker--is very popular and much respected, and makes many friends; but although he retains their friendship, he loses their confidence by displaying his instability of character. .. . The land he has now will be very valuable after a while---- 'S. L. C. ' Say 250 years hence, or thereabouts, Madame---- 'Madame. ' No--less time--but never mind the land, that is a secondary consideration--let him drop that for the present, and devote himself to his business and politics with all his might, for he must hold offices under Government. .. . 

 After a while you will possess a good deal of property--retire at the end of ten years--after which your pursuits will be literary --try the law--you will certainly succeed. I am done now. If you have any questions to ask--ask them freely--and if it be in my power, I will answer without reserve--without reserve. 

 I asked a few questions of minor importance-paid her and left-under the decided impression that going to the fortune-teller's was just as good as going to the opera, and cost scarcely a trifle more --ergo, I will disguise myself and go again, one of these days, when other amusements fail. Now isn't she the devil? That is to say, isn't she a right smart little woman?

 When you want money, let Ma know, and she will send it. She and Pamela are always fussing about change, so I sent them a hundred and twenty quarters yesterday--fiddler's change enough to last till I get back, I reckon. SAM. 

In the light of preceding and subsequent events, we must confess thatMadame Caprell was "indeed a right smart little woman. " She mademistakes enough (the letter is not quoted in full), but when we rememberthat she not only gave his profession at the moment, but at leastsuggested his career for the future; that she approximated the year ofhis father's death as the time when he was thrown upon the world; thatshe admonished him against his besetting habit, tobacco; that she read. Minutely not only his characteristics, but his brother Orion's; that sheoutlined the struggle in his conquest of the river; that she seeminglyhad knowledge of Orion's legal bent and his connection with the Tennesseeland, all seems remarkable enough, supposing, of course, she had nomaterial means of acquiring knowledge--one can never know certainly aboutsuch things. 

XXIX

THE END OF PILOTING

It is curious, however, that Madame Caprell, with clairvoyant vision, should not have seen an important event then scarcely more than twomonths distant: the breaking-out of the Civil War, with the closing ofthe river and the end of Mark Twain's career as a pilot. Perhaps thesethings were so near as to be "this side" the range of second sight. 

There had been plenty of war-talk, but few of the pilots believed thatwar was really coming. Traveling that great commercial highway, theriver, with intercourse both of North and South, they did not believethat any political differences would be allowed to interfere with thenation's trade, or would be settled otherwise than on the street corners, in the halls of legislation, and at the polls. True, several States, including Louisiana, had declared the Union a failure and seceded; butthe majority of opinions were not clear as to how far a State had rightsin such a matter, or as to what the real meaning of secession might be. Comparatively few believed it meant war. Samuel Clemens had no suchbelief. His Madame Caprell letter bears date of February 6, 1861, yetcontains no mention of war or of any special excitement in New Orleans--no forebodings as to national conditions. 

Such things came soon enough: President Lincoln was inaugurated on the4th of March, and six weeks later Fort Sumter was fired upon. Men beganto speak out then and to take sides. 

It was a momentous time in the Association Rooms. There were pilots whowould go with the Union; there were others who would go with theConfederacy. Horace Bixby was one of the former, and in due time becamechief of the Union River Service. Another pilot named Montgomery (SamuelClemens had once steered for him) declared for the South, and latercommanded the Confederate Mississippi fleet. They were all good friends, and their discussions, though warm, were not always acrimonious; but theytook sides. 

A good many were not very clear as to their opinions. Living both Northand South as they did, they saw various phases of the question anddivided their sympathies. Some were of one conviction one day and ofanother the next. Samuel Clemens was of the less radical element. Heknew there was a good deal to be said for either cause; furthermore, hewas not then bloodthirsty. A pilot-house with its elevated position andtransparency seemed a poor place to be in when fighting was going on. 

"I'll think about it, " he said. "I'm not very anxious to get up into aglass perch and be shot at by either side. I'll go home and reflect onthe matter. "

He did not realize it, but he had made his last trip as a pilot. It israther curious that his final brief note-book entry should begin with hisfuture nom de plume--a memorandum of soundings--"mark twain, " and shouldend with the words "no lead. "

He went up the river as a passenger on a steamer named the Uncle Sam. ZebLeavenworth was one of the pilots, and Sam Clemens usually stood watchwith him. They heard war-talk all the way and saw preparations, but theywere not molested, though at Memphis they basely escaped the blockade. At Cairo, Illinois, they saw soldiers drilling--troops later commanded byGrant. The Uncle Sam came steaming up toward St. Louis, those on boardcongratulating themselves on having come through unscathed. They werenot quite through, however. Abreast of Jefferson Barracks they suddenlyheard the boom of a cannon and saw a great whorl of smoke drifting intheir direction. They did not realize that it was a signal--a thunderoushalt--and kept straight on. Less than a minute later there was anotherboom, and a shell exploded directly in front of the pilot-house, breakinga lot of glass and destroying a good deal of the upper decoration. ZebLeavenworth fell back into a corner with a yell. 

"Good Lord Almighty! Sam;" he said, "what do they mean by that?"

Clemens stepped to the wheel and brought the boat around. "I guess theywant us to wait a minute, Zeb, " he said. 

They were examined and passed. It was the last steamboat to make thetrip from New Orleans to St. Louis. Mark Twain's pilot-days were over. He would have grieved had he known this fact. 

"I loved the profession far better than any I have followed since, " helong afterward declared, "and I took a measureless pride in it. "

The dreamy, easy, romantic existence suited him exactly. A sovereign andan autocrat, the pilot's word was law; he wore his responsibilities as acrown. As long as he lived Samuel Clemens would return to those old dayswith fondness and affection, and with regret that they were no more. 

XXX

THE SOLDIER

Clemens spent a few days in St. Louis (in retirement, for there was apressing war demand for Mississippi pilots), then went up to Hannibal tovisit old friends. They were glad enough to see him, and invited him tojoin a company of gay military enthusiasts who were organizing to "helpGov. 'Claib' Jackson repel the invader. " A good many companies wereforming in and about Hannibal, and sometimes purposes were conflictingand badly mixed. Some of the volunteers did not know for a time whichinvader they intended to drive from Missouri soil, and more than onecompany in the beginning was made up of young fellows whose chiefambition was to have a lark regardless as to which cause they mighteventually espouse. 

--[The military organizations of Hannibal and Palmyra, in 1861, were asfollows: The Marion Artillery; the Silver Grays; Palmyra Guards; the W. E. Dennis company, and one or two others. Most of them were smallprivate affairs, usually composed of about half-and-half Union andConfederate men, who knew almost nothing of the questions or conditions, and disbanded in a brief time, to attach themselves to the regularservice according as they developed convictions. The general idea ofthese companies was a little camping-out expedition and a good time. Onesuch company one morning received unexpected reinforcements. They sawthe approach of the recruits, and, remarking how well drilled the newarrivals seemed to be, mistook them for the enemy and fled. ]

Samuel Clemens had by this time decided, like Lee, that he would go withhis State and lead battalions to victory. The "battalion" in thisinstance consisted of a little squad of young fellows of his own age, mostly pilots and schoolmates, including Sam Bowen, Ed Stevens, and AbGrimes, about a dozen, all told. They organized secretly, for the Unionmilitia was likely to come over from Illinois any time and look up anysuspicious armies that made an open demonstration. An army might loseenthusiasm and prestige if it spent a night or two in the calaboose. 

So they met in a secret place above Bear Creek Hill, just as Tom Sawyer'sred-handed bandits had gathered so long before (a good many of them wereof the same lawless lot), and they planned how they would sell theirlives on the field of glory, just as Tom Sawyer's band might have done ifit had thought about playing "War, " instead of "Indian" and "Pirate" and"Bandit" with fierce raids on peach orchards and melon patches. Then, onthe evening before marching away, they stealthily called on theirsweethearts--those who had them did, and the others pretended sweetheartsfor the occasion--and when it was dark and mysterious they said good-byand suggested that maybe those girls would never see them again. And asalways happens in such a case, some of them were in earnest, and two orthree of the little group that slipped away that night never did comeback, and somewhere sleep in unmarked graves. 

The "two Sams"--Sam Bowen and Sam Clemens--called on Patty Gore and JuliaWillis for their good-by visit, and, when they left, invited the girls to"walk through the pickets" with them, which they did as far as Bear CreekHill. The girls didn't notice any pickets, because the pickets were awaycalling on girls, too, and probably wouldn't be back to begin picketingfor some time. So the girls stood there and watched the soldiers marchup Bear Creek Hill and disappear among the trees. 

The army had a good enough time that night, marching through the brushand vines toward New London, though this sort of thing grew rathermonotonous by morning. When they took a look at themselves by daylight, with their nondescript dress and accoutrements, there was some thingabout it all which appealed to one's sense of humor rather than to hispatriotism. Colonel Ralls, of Ralls County, however, received themcordially and made life happier for them with a good breakfast and someencouraging words. He was authorized to administer the oath of office, he said, and he proceeded to do it, and made them a speech besides; alsohe sent out notice to some of the neighbors--to Col. Bill Splawn, FarmerNuck Matson, and others--that the community had an army on its hands andperhaps ought to do something for it. This brought in a number ofcontributions, provisions, paraphernalia, and certain superfluous horsesand mules, which converted the battalion into a cavalry, and made itpossible for it to move on to the front without further delay. SamuelClemens, mounted on a small yellow mule whose tail had been trimmed downto a tassel at the end in a style that suggested his name, Paint Brush, upholstered and supplemented with an extra pair of cowskin boots, a pairof gray blankets, a home-made quilt, frying-pan, a carpet sack, a smallvalise, an overcoat, an old-fashioned Kentucky rifle, twenty yards ofrope, and an umbrella, was a representative unit of the brigade. Theproper thing for an army loaded like that was to go into camp, and theydid it. They went over on Salt River, near Florida, and camped not farfrom a farm-house with a big log stable; the latter they used asheadquarters. Somebody suggested that when they went into battle theyought to have short hair, so that in a hand-to-hand conflict the enemycould not get hold of it. Tom Lyon found a pair of sheep-shears in thestable and acted as barber. They were not very sharp shears, but thearmy stood the torture for glory in the field, and a group of littledarkies collected from the farm-house to enjoy the performance. The armythen elected its officers. William Ely was chosen captain, with AsaGlasscock as first lieutenant. Samuel Clemens was then voted secondlieutenant, and there were sergeants and orderlies. There were onlythree privates when the election was over, and these could not bedistinguished by their deportment. There was scarcely any discipline inthis army. 

Then it set in to rain. It rained by day and it rained by night. SaltRiver rose until it was bank full and overflowed the bottoms. Twicethere was a false night alarm of the enemy approaching, and the battalionwent slopping through the mud and brush into the dark, picking out thebest way to retreat, plodding miserably back to camp when the alarm wasover. Once they fired a volley at a row of mullen stalks, waving on thebrow of a hill, and once a picket shot at his own horse that had gotloose and had wandered toward him in the dusk. 

The rank and file did not care for picket duty. Sam Bowen--ordered byLieutenant Clemens to go on guard one afternoon--denounced his superiorand had to be threatened with court-martial and death. Sam went finally, but he sat in a hot open place and swore at the battalion and the war ingeneral, and finally went to sleep in the broiling sun. These thingsbegan to tell on patriotism. Presently Lieutenant Clemens developed aboil, and was obliged to make himself comfortable with some hay in ahorse-trough, where he lay most of the day, violently denouncing the warand the fools that invented it. Then word came that "General" TomHarris, who was in command of the district, was stopping at a farmhousetwo miles away, living on the fat of the land. 

That settled it. Most of them knew Tom Harris, and they regarded hisneglect of them as perfidy. They broke camp without further ceremony. 

Lieutenant Clemens needed assistance to mount Paint Brush, and the littlemule refused to cross the river; so Ab Grimes took the coil of rope, hitched one end of it to his own saddle and the other end to PaintBrush's neck. Grimes was mounted on a big horse, and when he started itwas necessary for Paint Brush to follow. Arriving at the farther bank, Grimes looked around, and was horrified to see that the end of the ropeled down in the water with no horse and rider in view. He spurred up thebank, and the hat of Lieutenant Clemens and the ears of Paint Brushappeared. 

"Ah, " said Clemens, as he mopped his face, "do you know that little devilwaded all the way across?"

A little beyond the river they met General Harris, who ordered them backto camp. They admonished him to "go there himself. " They said they hadbeen in that camp and knew all about it. They were going now where therewas food--real food and plenty of it. Then he begged them, but it was nouse. By and by they stopped at a farm-house for supplies. A tall, bonywoman came to the door:

"You're secesh, ain't you?"

They acknowledged that they were defenders of the cause and that theywanted to buy provisions. The request seemed to inflame her. 

"Provisions!" she screamed. "Provisions for secesh, and my husband acolonel in the Union Army. You get out of here!"

She reached for a hickory hoop-pole that stood by the door, and the armymoved on. When they arrived at Col. Bill Splawn's that night ColonelSplawn and his family had gone to bed, and it seemed unwise to disturbthem. The hungry army camped in the barnyard and crept into the hay-loftto sleep. Presently somebody yelled "Fire!" One of the boys had beensmoking and started the hay. Lieutenant Clemens suddenly wakened, made aquick rolling movement from the blaze, and rolled out of a big hay-windowinto the barnyard below. The rest of the army, startled into action, seized the burning hay and pitched it out of the same window. Thelieutenant had sprained his ankle when he struck the ground, and his boilwas far from well, but when the burning hay descended he forgot hisdisabilities. Literally and figuratively this was the final straw. Witha voice and vigor suited to the urgencies of the case, he made a springfrom under the burning stuff, flung off the remnants, and with them hislast vestige of interest in the war. The others, now that the fire was, out, seemed to think the incident boisterously amusing. Whereupon thelieutenant rose up and told them, collectively and individually, what hethought of them; also he spoke of the war and the Confederacy, and of thehuman race at large. They helped him in, then, for his ankle wasswelling badly. Next morning, when Colonel Splawn had given them a goodbreakfast, the army set out for New London. 

But Lieutenant Clemens never got any farther than Nuck Matson'sfarm-house. His ankle was so painful by that time that Mrs. Matson hadhim put to bed, where he stayed for several weeks, recovering from theinjury and stress of war. A little negro boy was kept on watch for Uniondetachments--they were passing pretty frequently now--and when one camein sight the lieutenant was secluded until the danger passed. When hewas able to travel, he had had enough of war and the Confederacy. Hedecided to visit Orion in Keokuk. Orion was a Union abolitionist andmight lead him to mend his doctrines. 

As for the rest of the army, it was no longer a unit in the field. Itsmembers had drifted this way and that, some to return to theiroccupations, some to continue in the trade of war. Sam Bowen is said tohave been caught by the Federal troops and put to sawing wood in thestockade at Hannibal. Ab (A. C. ) Grimes became a noted Confederate spyand is still among those who have lived to furnish the details here setdown. Properly officered and disciplined, that detachment would havemade as brave soldiers as any. Military effectiveness is a matter ofleaders and tactics. 

Mark Twain's own Private History of a 'Campaign that Failed' is, ofcourse, built on this episode. He gives us a delicious account, even ifit does not strikingly resemble the occurrence. The story might havebeen still better if he had not introduced the shooting of the soldier inthe dark. The incident was invented, of course, to present the realhorror of war, but it seems incongruous in this burlesque campaign, and, to some extent at least, it missed fire in its intention. 

--[In a book recently published, Mark Twain's "nephew" is quoted asauthority for the statement that Mark Twain was detailed for river duty, captured, and paroled, captured again, and confined in atobacco-warehouse in St. Louis, etc. Mark Twain had but one nephew:Samuel E. Moffett, whose Biographical Sketch (vol. Xxii, Mark Twain'sWorks) contains no such statement; and nothing of the sort occurred. ]

XXXI

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

When Madame Caprell prophesied that Orion Clemens would hold office undergovernment, she must have seen with true clairvoyant vision. Theinauguration of Abraham Lincoln brought Edward Bates into his Cabinet, and Bates was Orion's friend. Orion applied for something, and got it. James W. Nye had been appointed Territorial governor of Nevada, and Orionwas made Territorial secretary. You could strain a point and refer tothe office as "secretary of state, " which was an imposing title. Furthermore, the secretary would be acting governor in the governor'sabsence, and there would be various subsidiary honors. When LieutenantClemens arrived in Keokuk, Orion was in the first flush of his triumphand needed only money to carry him to the scene of new endeavor. Thelate lieutenant C. S. A. Had accumulated money out of his pilot salary, and there was no comfortable place just then in the active Middle Westfor an officer of either army who had voluntarily retired from theservice. He agreed that if Orion would overlook his recent briefdefection from the Union and appoint him now as his (Orion's) secretary, he would supply the funds for both overland passages, and they wouldstart with no unnecessary delay for a country so new that all humanbeings, regardless of previous affiliations and convictions, were flunginto the common fusing-pot and recast in the general mold of pioneer. 

The offer was a boon to Orion. He was always eager to forgive, and themoney was vitally necessary. In the briefest possible time he had packedhis belongings, which included a large unabridged dictionary, and thebrothers were on their way to St. Louis for final leave-taking beforesetting out for the great mysterious land of promise--the Pacific West. From St. Louis they took the boat for St. Jo, whence the Overland stagestarted, and for six days "plodded" up the shallow, muddy, snaggyMissouri, a new experience for the pilot of the Father of Waters. 

 In fact, the boat might almost as well have gone to St. Jo by land, for she was walking most of the time, anyhow--climbing over reefs and clambering over snags patiently and laboriously all day long. The captain said she was a "bully" boat, and all she wanted was some "shear" and a bigger wheel. I thought she wanted a pair of stilts, but I had the deep sagacity not to say so. '--['Roughing It'. ]--

At St. Jo they paid one hundred and fifty dollars apiece for their stagefare (with something extra for the dictionary), and on the twenty-sixthof July, 1861, set out on that long, delightful trip behind sixteengalloping horses--or mules--never stopping except for meals or to changeteams, heading steadily into the sunset, following it from horizon tohorizon over the billowy plains, across the snow-clad Rockies, coveringthe seventeen hundred miles between St. Jo and Carson City (including atwo-day halt in Salt Lake City) in nineteen glorious days. What aninspiration in such a trip! In 'Roughing It' he tells it all, and says:"Even at this day it thrills me through and through to think of the life, the gladness, and the wild sense of freedom that used to make the blooddance in my face on those fine Overland mornings. "

The nights, with the uneven mail-bags for a bed and the boundingdictionary for company, were less exhilarating; but then youth does notmind. 

 All things being now ready, stowed the uneasy dictionary where it would lie as quiet as possible, and placed the water-canteen and pistols where we could find them in the dark. Then we smoked a final pipe and swapped a final yarn; after which we put the pipes, tobacco, and bag of coin in snug holes and caves among the mail- bags, and made the place as dark as the inside of a cow, as the conductor phrased it in his picturesque way. It was certainly as dark as any place could be--nothing was even dimly visible in it. And finally we rolled ourselves up like silkworms, each person in his own blanket, and sank peacefully to sleep. 

Youth loves that sort of thing, despite its inconvenience. And sometimesthe clatter of the pony-rider swept by in the night, carrying letters atfive dollars apiece and making the Overland trip in eight days; just aquick beat of hoofs in the distance, a dash, and a hail from thedarkness, the beat of hoofs again, then only the rumble of the stage andthe even, swinging gallop of the mules. Sometimes they got a glimpse ofthe ponyrider by day--a flash, as it were, as he sped by. And everymorning brought new scenery, new phases of frontier life, including, atlast, what was to them the strangest phase of all, Mormonism. 

They spent two wonderful days at Salt Lake City, that mysterious andremote capital of the great American monarchy, who still flaunts herlawless, orthodox creed the religion of David and Solomon--and thrives. An obliging official made it his business to show them the city and thelife there, the result of which would be those amusing chapters in'Roughing It' by and by. The Overland travelers set out refreshed fromSalt Lake City, and with a new supply of delicacies--ham, eggs, andtobacco--things that make such a trip worth while. The author of'Roughing It' assures us of this:

 Nothing helps scenery like ham and eggs. Ham and eggs, and after these a pipe--an old, rank, delicious pipe--ham and eggs and scenery, a "down-grade, " a flying coach, a fragrant pipe, and a contented heart--these make happiness. It is what all the ages have struggled for. 

But one must read all the story of that long-ago trip. It was a trip sowell worth taking, so well worth recording, so well worth reading andrereading to-day. We can only read of it now. The Overland stage longago made its last trip, and will not start any more. Even if it did, thelife and conditions, the very scenery itself, would not be the same. 

XXXII

THE PIONEER

It was a hot, dusty August 14th that the stage reached Carson City anddrew up before the Ormsby Hotel. It was known that the Territorialsecretary was due to arrive; and something in the nature of a reception, with refreshments and frontier hospitality, had been planned. GovernorNye, formerly police commissioner in New York City, had arrived a shorttime before, and with his party of retainers ("heelers" we would callthem now), had made an imposing entrance. Perhaps something of the sortwas expected with the advent of the secretary of state. Instead, thecommittee saw two way-worn individuals climb down from the stage, unkempt, unshorn--clothed in the roughest of frontier costume, the samethey had put on at St. Jo--dusty, grimy, slouchy, and weather-beaten withlong days of sun and storm and alkali desert dust. It is not likelythere were two more unprepossessing officials on the Pacific coast atthat moment than the newly arrived Territorial secretary and his brother:Somebody identified them, and the committee melted away; the half-formedplan of a banquet faded out and was not heard of again. Soap and waterand fresh garments worked a transformation; but that first impression hadbeen fatal to festivities of welcome. 

Carson City, the capital of Nevada, was a "wooden town, " with apopulation of two thousand souls. Its main street consisted of a fewblocks of small frame stores, some of which are still standing. In'Roughing It' the author writes:

 In the middle of the town, opposite the stores, was a "Plaza, " which is native to all towns beyond the Rocky Mountains, a large, unfenced, level vacancy with a Liberty Pole in it, and very useful as a place for public auctions, horse trades, and mass-meetings, and likewise for teamsters to camp in. Two other sides of the Plaza were faced by stores, offices, and stables. The rest of Carson City was pretty scattering. 

One sees the place pretty clearly from this brief picture of his, but itrequires an extract from a letter written to his mother somewhat later topopulate it. The mineral excitement was at its height in those days ofthe early sixties, and had brought together such a congress of nations asonly the greed for precious metal can assemble. The sidewalks andstreets of Carson, and the Plaza, thronged all day with a motleyaggregation--a museum of races, which it was an education merely to gazeupon. Jane Clemens had required him to write everything just as it was--"no better and no worse. "

 Well--[he says]--, "Gold Hill" sells at $5, 000 per foot, cash down; "Wild Cat" isn't worth ten cents. The country is fabulously rich in gold, silver, copper, lead, coal, iron, quicksilver, marble, granite, chalk, plaster of Paris (gypsum), thieves, murderers, desperadoes, ladies, children, lawyers, Christians, Indians, Chinamen, Spaniards, gamblers, sharpens; coyotes (pronounced ki-yo- ties), poets, preachers, and jackass rabbits. I overheard a gentleman say, the other day, that it was "the d---dest country under the sun, " and that comprehensive conception I fully subscribe to. It never rains here, and the dew never falls. No flowers grow here, and no green thing gladdens the eye. The birds that fly over the land carry their provisions with them. Only the crow and the raven tarry with us. Our city lies in the midst of a desert of the purest, most unadulterated and uncompromising sand, in which infernal soil nothing but that fag-end of vegetable creation, "sage- brush, " ventures to grow. . . . I said we are situated in a flat, sandy desert--true. And surrounded on all sides by such prodigious mountains that when you look disdainfully down (from them) upon the insignificant village of Carson, in that instant you are seized with a burning desire to stretch forth your hand, put the city in your pocket, and walk off with it. 

 As to churches, I believe they have got a Catholic one here, but, like that one the New York fireman spoke of, I believe "they don't run her now. "

Carson has been through several phases of change since this was written--for better and for worse. It is a thriving place in these later days, and new farming conditions have improved the country roundabout. But itwas a desert outpost then, a catch-all for the human drift which everywhirlwind of discovery sweeps along. Gold and silver hunting and minespeculations were the industries--gambling, drinking, and murder were thediversions--of the Nevada capital. Politics developed in due course, though whether as a business or a diversion is not clear at this time. 

The Clemens brothers took lodging with a genial Irishwoman, Mrs. Murphy, a New York retainer of Governor Nye, who boarded the camp-followers. --[The Mrs. O'Flannigan of 'Roughing It'. ]--This retinue had come in thehope of Territorial pickings and mine adventure--soldiers of fortune theywere, and a good-natured lot all together. One of them, Bob Howland, anephew of the governor, attracted Samuel Clemens by his clean-cut mannerand commanding eye. 

"The man who has that eye doesn't need to go armed, " he wrote later. "Hecan move upon an armed desperado and quell him and take him a prisonerwithout saying a single word. " It was the same Bob Howland who would beknown by and by as the most fearless man in the Territory; who, as citymarshal of Aurora, kept that lawless camp in subjection, and, when thefriends of a lot of condemned outlaws were threatening an attack withgeneral massacre, sent the famous message to Governor Nye: "All quiet inAurora. Five men will be hung in an hour. " And it was quiet, and theprogramme was carried out. But this is a digression and somewhatpremature. 

Orion Clemens, anxious for laurels, established himself in the meagerfashion which he thought the government would approve; and his brother, finding neither duties nor salary attached to his secondary position, devoted himself mainly to the study of human nature as exhibited underfrontier conditions. Sometimes, when the nights were cool, he wouldbuild a fire in the office stove, and, with Bob Howland and a few otherchoice members of the "Brigade" gathered around, would tell river yarnsin that inimitable fashion which would win him devoted audiences all hisdays. His river life had increased his natural languor of habit, and hisslow speech heightened the lazy impression which he was never unwillingto convey. His hearers generally regarded him as an easygoing, indolentgood fellow with a love of humor--with talent, perhaps--but as one notlikely ever to set the world afire. They did not happen to think thatthe same inclination which made them crowd about to listen and applaudwould one day win for him the attention of all mankind. 

Within a brief time Sam Clemens (he was never known as otherwise than"Sam" among those pioneers) was about the most conspicuous figure on theCarson streets. His great bushy head of auburn hair, his piercing, twinkling eyes, his loose, lounging walk, his careless disorder of dress, drew the immediate attention even of strangers; made them turn to look asecond time and then inquire as to his identity. 

He had quickly adapted himself to the frontier mode. Lately a riversovereign and dandy, in fancy percales and patent leathers, he had becomethe roughest of rough-clad pioneers, in rusty slouch hat, flannel shirt, coarse trousers slopping half in and half out of the heavy cowskin bootsAlways something of a barbarian in love with the loose habit ofunconvention, he went even further than others and became a sort ofparagon of disarray. The more energetic citizens of Carson did notprophesy much for his future among them. Orion Clemens, with the stirand bustle of the official new broom, earned their quick respect; but hisbrother--well, they often saw him leaning for an hour or more at a timeagainst an awning support at the corner of King and Carson streets, smoking a short clay pipe and staring drowsily at the human kaleidoscopeof the Plaza, scarcely changing his position, just watching, studying, lost in contemplation--all of which was harmless enough, of course, buthow could any one ever get a return out of employment like that?

Samuel Clemens did not catch the mining fever immediately; there was toomuch to see at first to consider any special undertaking. The merecoming to the frontier was for the present enough; he had no plans. Hischief purpose was to see the world beyond the Rockies, to derive from itsuch amusement and profit as might fall in his way. The war would end, by and by, and he would go back to the river, no doubt. He was alreadynot far from homesick for the "States" and his associations there. Heclosed one letter:

 I heard a military band play "What Are the Wild Waves Saying" the other night, and it brought Ella Creel and Belle (Stotts) across the desert in an instant, for they sang the song in Orion's yard the first time I ever heard it. It was like meeting an old friend. I tell you I could have swallowed that whole band, trombone and all, if such a compliment would have been any gratification to them. 

His friends contracted the mining mania; Bob Howland and Raish Phillipswent down to Aurora and acquired "feet" in mini-claims and wrote himenthusiastic letters. With Captain Nye, the governor's brother, hevisited them and was presented with an interest which permitted him tocontribute an assessment every now and then toward the development of themine; but his enthusiasm still languished. 

He was interested more in the native riches above ground than in thoseconcealed under it. He had heard that the timber around Lake Bigler(Tahoe) promised vast wealth which could be had for the asking. The lakeitself and the adjacent mountains were said to be beautiful beyond thedream of art. He decided to locate a timber claim on its shores. 

He made the trip afoot with a young Ohio lad, John Kinney, and theaccount of this trip as set down in 'Roughing It' is one of the bestthings in the book. The lake proved all they had expected--more thanthey expected; it was a veritable habitation of the gods, with itsdelicious, winy atmosphere, its vast colonnades of pines, its measurelessdepths of water, so clear that to drift on it was like floating highaloft in mid-nothingness. They staked out a timber claim and made asemblance of fencing it and of building a habitation, to comply with thelaw; but their chief employment was a complete abandonment to the quietluxury of that dim solitude: wandering among the trees, lounging alongthe shore, or drifting on that transparent, insubstantial sea. They didnot sleep in their house, he says:

"It never occurred to us, for one thing; and, besides, it was built tohold the ground, and that was enough. We did not wish to strain it. "

They lived by their camp-fire on the borders of the lake, and one day--itwas just at nightfall--it got away from them, fired the forest, anddestroyed their fence and habitation. His picture in 'Roughing It' ofthe superb night spectacle, the mighty mountain conflagration reflectedin the waters of the lake, is splendidly vivid. The reader may wish tocompare it with this extract from a letter written to Pamela at the time. 

 The level ranks of flame were relieved at intervals by the standard- bearers, as we called the tall, dead trees, wrapped in fire, and waving their blazing banners a hundred feet in the air. Then we could turn from the scene to the lake, and see every branch and leaf and cataract of flame upon its banks perfectly reflected, as in a gleaming, fiery mirror. The mighty roaring of the conflagration, together with our solitary and somewhat unsafe position (for there was no one within six miles of us), rendered the scene very impressive. Occasionally one of us would remove his pipe from his mouth and say, "Superb, magnificent!--beautifull--but--by the Lord God Almighty, if we attempt to sleep in this little patch to-night, we'll never live till morning!"

This is good writing too, but it lacks the fancy and the choice ofphrasing which would develop later. The fire ended their first excursionto Tahoe, but they made others and located other claims--claims in whichthe "folks at home, " Mr. Moffett, James Lampton, and others, wereincluded. It was the same James Lampton who would one day serve as amodel for Colonel Sellers. Evidently Samuel Clemens had a good opinionof his business capacity in that earlier day, for he writes:

 This is just the country for cousin Jim to live in. I don't believe it would take him six months to make $100, 000 here if he had $3, 000 to commence with. I suppose he can't leave his family, though. 

Further along in the same letter his own overflowing Seller's optimismdevelops. 

 Orion and I have confidence enough in this country to think that if the war lets us alone we can make Mr. Moffett rich without its ever costing him a cent or a particle of trouble. 

This letter bears date of October 25th, and from it we gather that acertain interest in mining claims had by this time developed. 

 We have got about 1, 650 feet of mining ground, and, if it proves good, Mr. Moffett's name will go in, and if not I can get "feet" for him in the spring. 

 You see, Pamela, the trouble does not consist in getting mining ground--for there is plenty enough--but the money to work it with after you get it. 

He refers to Pamela's two little children, his niece Annie and Baby Sam, --[Samuel E. Moffett, in later life a well-known journalist and editor. ]--and promises to enter claims for them--timber claims probably--for hewas by no means sanguine as yet concerning the mines. That was a longtime ago. Tahoe land is sold by the lot, now, to summer residents. Thoseclaims would have been riches to-day, but they were all abandonedpresently, forgotten in the delirium which goes only with the pursuit ofprecious ores. 

XXXIII

THE PROSPECTOR

It was not until early winter that Samuel Clemens got the real mininginfection. Everybody had it by that time; the miracle is that he had notfallen an earlier victim. The wildest stories of sudden fortune were inthe air, some of them undoubtedly true. Men had gone to bed paupers, onthe verge of starvation, and awakened to find themselves millionaires. Others had sold for a song claims that had been suddenly found to befairly stuffed with precious ores. Cart-loads of bricks--silver andgold--daily drove through the streets. 

In the midst of these things reports came from the newly opened Humboldtregion--flamed up with a radiance that was fairly blinding. The papersdeclared that Humboldt County "was the richest mineral region on God'sfootstool. " The mountains were said to be literally bursting with goldand silver. A correspondent of the daily Territorial Enterprise fairlywallowed in rhetoric, yet found words inadequate to paint the measurelesswealth of the Humboldt mines. No wonder those not already mad speedilybecame so. No wonder Samuel Clemens, with his natural tendency tospeculative optimism, yielded to the epidemic and became as "frenzied asthe craziest. " The air to him suddenly began to shimmer; all histhoughts were of "leads" and "ledges" and "veins"; all his clouds hadsilver linings; all his dreams were of gold. He joined an expedition atonce; he reproached himself bitterly for not having started earlier. 

 Hurry was the word! We wasted no time. Our party consisted of four persons--a blacksmith sixty years of age, two young lawyers, and myself. We bought a wagon and two miserable old horses. We put 1, 800 pounds of provisions and mining tools in the wagon and drove out of Carson on a chilly December afternoon. 

In a letter to his mother he states that besides provisions and miningtools, their load consisted of certain luxuries viz. , ten pounds ofkillikinick, Watts's Hymns, fourteen decks of cards, Dombey and Son, acribbage-board, one small keg of lager-beer, and the "Carmina Sacra. "

The two young lawyers were A. W. (Gus) Oliver (Oliphant in 'Roughing It'), and W. H. Clagget. Sam Clemens had known Billy Clagget as a law studentin Keokuk, and they were brought together now by this association. BothClagget and Oliver were promising young men, and would be heard from intime. The blacksmith's name was Tillou (Ballou), a sturdy, honest soulwith a useful knowledge of mining and the repair of tools. There werealso two dogs in the party--a small curly-tailed mongrel, Curney, theproperty of Mr. Tillou, and a young hound. The combination seemed astrong one. 

It proved a weak one in the matter of horses. Oliver and Clemens hadfurnished the team, and their selection had not been of the best. It wastwo hundred miles to Humboldt, mostly across sand. The horses could notdrag their load and the miners too, so the miners got out. Then theyfound it necessary to push. 

 Not because we were fond of it, Ma--oh, no! but on Bunker's account. Bunker was the "near" horse on the larboard side, named after the attorney-general of this Territory. My horse--and I am sorry you do not know him personally, Ma, for I feel toward him, sometimes, as if he were a blood relation of our family--he is so lazy, you know--my horse--I was going to say, was the "off" horse on the starboard side. But it was on Bunker's account, principally, that we pushed behind the wagon. In fact, Ma, that horse had something on his mind all the way to Humboldt. --[S. L. C. To his mother. Published in the Keokuk (Iowa) Gate city. ]--

So they had to push, and most of that two hundred miles through snow andsand storm they continued to push and swear and groan, sustained only bythe thought that they must arrive at last, when their troubles would allbe at an end, for they would be millionaires in a brief time and neverknow want or fatigue any more. 

There were compensations: the camp-fire at night was cheerful, the foodsatisfying. They bundled close under the blankets and, when it was toocold to sleep, looked up at the stars, while the future entertainer ofkings would spin yarn after yarn that made his hearers forget theirdiscomforts. Judge Oliver, the last one of the party alive, in a recentletter to the writer of this history, says:

 He was the life of the camp; but sometimes there would come a reaction and he could hardly speak for a day or two. One day a pack of wolves chased us, and the hound Sam speaks of never stopped to look back till he reached the next station, many miles ahead. 

Judge Oliver adds that an Indian war had just ended, and that theyoccasionally passed the charred ruin of a shack, and new graves: This wasdisturbing enough. Then they came to that desolation of desolations, theAlkali Desert, where the sand is of unknown depth, where the road isstrewn thickly with the carcasses of dead beasts of burden, the charredremains of wagons, chains, bolts, and screws, which thirsty emigrants, grown desperate, have thrown away in the grand hope of being able, whenless encumbered, to reach water. 

They traveled all day and night, pushing through that fierce, waterlesswaste to reach camp on the other side. It was three o'clock in themorning when they got across and dropped down utterly exhausted. JudgeOliver in his letter tells what happened then:

 The sun was high in the heavens when we were aroused from our sleep by a yelling band of Piute warriors. We were upon our feet in an instant. The pictures of burning cabins and the lonely graves we had passed were in our minds. Our scalps were still our own, and not dangling from the belts of our visitors. Sam pulled himself together, put his hand on his head as if to make sure he had not been scalped, and then with his inimitable drawl said: "Boys, they have left us our scalps. Let's give them all the flour and sugar they ask for. " And we did give them a good supply, for we were grateful. 

They were eleven weary days pushing their wagon and team the two hundredmiles to Unionville, Humboldt County, arriving at last in a drivingsnow-storm. Unionville consisted of eleven poor cabins built in thebottom of a canon, five on one side and six facing them on the other. They were poor, three-sided, one-room huts, the fourth side formed by thehill; the roof, a spread of white cotton. Stones used to roll down onthem sometimes, and Mark Twain tells of live stock--specifically of amule and cow--that interrupted the patient, long-suffering Oliver, whowas trying to write poetry, and only complained when at last "an entirecow came rolling down the hill, crashed through on the table, and made ashapeless wreck of everything. "--['The Innocents Abroad. ']

Judge Oliver still does not complain; but he denies the cow. He saysthere were no cows in Humboldt in those days, so perhaps it was only aliterary cow, though in any case it will long survive. Judge Oliver'sname will go down with it to posterity. 

In the letter which Samuel Clemens wrote home he tells of what they foundin Unionville. 

 "National" there was selling at $50 per foot and assayed $2, 496 per ton at the mint in San Francisco. And the "Alda Nueva, " "Peru, " "Delirio, " "Congress, " "Independent, " and others were immensely rich leads. And moreover, having winning ways with us, we could get "feet" enough to make us all rich one of these days. 

"I confess with shame, " says the author of 'Roughing It', "that Iexpected to find masses of silver lying all about the ground. " And headds that he slipped away from the cabin to find a claim on his ownaccount, and tells how he came staggering back under a load of goldenspecimens; also how his specimens proved to be only worthless mica; andhow he learned that in mining nothing that glitters is gold. His accountin 'Roughing It' of the Humboldt mining experience is sufficiently goodhistory to make detail here unnecessary. Tillou instructed them inprospecting, and in time they located a fairly promising claim. Theywent to work on it with pick and shovel, then with drill andblasting-powder. Then they gave it up. 

"One week of this satisfied me. I resigned. "

They tried to tunnel, but soon resigned again. It was pleasanter toprospect and locate and trade claims and acquire feet in every new ledgethan it was to dig-and about as profitable. The golden reports ofHumboldt had been based on assays of selected rich specimens, and weremainly delirium and insanity. The Clemens-Clagget-Oliver-Tilloucombination never touched their claims again with pick and shovel, thoughtheir faith, or at least their hope, in them did not immediately die. Billy Clagget put out his shingle as notary public, and Gus Oliver putout his as probate judge. Sam Clemens and Tillou, with a fat-witted, arrogant Prussian named Pfersdoff (Ollendorf) set out for Carson City. Itis not certain what became of the wagon and team, or of the two dogs. 

The Carson travelers were water-bound at a tavern on the Carson River(the scene of the "Arkansas" sketch), with a fighting, drinking lot. Pfersdoff got them nearly drowned getting away, and finally succeeded ingetting them absolutely lost in the snow. The author of 'Roughing It'tells us how they gave themselves up to die, and how each swore offwhatever he had in the way of an evil habit, how they cast theirtempters-tobacco, cards, and whisky-into the snow. He further tells ushow next morning, when they woke to find themselves alive, within a fewrods of a hostelry, they surreptitiously dug up those things again and, deep in shame and luxury, resumed their fallen ways: It was the 29th ofJanuary when they reached Carson City. They had been gone not quite twomonths, one of which had been spent in travel. It was a brief period, but it contained an episode, and it seemed like years. 

XXXIV

TERRITORIAL CHARACTERISTICS

Meantime, the Territorial secretary had found difficulties in launchingthe ship of state. There was no legislative hall in Carson City; and ifAbram Curry, one of the original owners of the celebrated Gould and Currymine--"Curry--old Curry--old Abe Curry, " as he called himself--had nottendered the use of a hall rent free, the first legislature would havebeen obliged to "sit in the desert. " Furthermore, Orion had met withcertain acute troubles of his own. The government at Washington had notappreciated his economies in the matter of cheap office rental, and ithad stipulated the price which he was to pay for public printing andvarious other services-prices fixed according to Eastern standards. Theseprices did not obtain in Nevada, and when Orion, confident that becauseof his other economies the comptroller would stretch a point and allowthe increased frontier tariff, he was met with the usual thick-headedofficial lack of imagination, with the result that the excess paid wasdeducted from his slender salary. With a man of less conscience thiscondition would easily have been offset by another wherein other rates, less arbitrary, would have been adjusted to negotiate the officialdeficit. With Orion Clemens such a remedy was not even considered;yielding, unstable, blown by every wind of influence though he was, Orion's integrity was a rock. 

Governor Nye was among those who presently made this discovery. Oldpolitician that he was--former police commissioner of New York City--Nyetook care of his own problems in the customary manner. To him, politicswas simply a game--to be played to win. He was a popular, jovial man, well liked and thought of, but he did not lie awake, as Orion did, planning economies for the government, or how to make up excess chargesout of his salary. To him Nevada was simply a doorway to the UnitedStates Senate, and in the mean time his brigade required officialrecognition and perquisites. The governor found Orion Clemens animpediment to this policy. Orion could not be brought to a properpolitical understanding of "special bills and accounts, " and relationsbetween the secretary of state and the governor were becoming strained. 

It was about this time that the man who had been potentate of thepilot-house of a Mississippi River steamer returned from Humboldt. Hewas fond of the governor, but he had still higher regard for the familyintegrity. When he had heard Orion's troubled story, he called onGovernor Nye and delivered himself in his own fashion. In his formeremployments he had acquired a vocabulary and moral backbone sufficient tohis needs. We may regret that no stenographic report was made of theinterview. It would be priceless now. But it is lost; we only know thatOrion's rectitude was not again assailed, and that curiously enoughGovernor Nye apparently conceived a strong admiration and respect for hisbrother. 

Samuel Clemens, miner, remained but a brief time in Carson City--onlylong enough to arrange for a new and more persistent venture. He did notconfess his Humboldt failure to his people; in fact, he had not as yetconfessed it to himself; his avowed purpose was to return to Humboldtafter a brief investigation of the Esmeralda mines. He had been payingheavy assessments on his holdings there; and, with a knowledge of mininggained at Unionville, he felt that his personal attention at Aurora mightbe important. As a matter of fact, he was by this time fairly daft onthe subject of mines and mining, with the rest of the community forcompany. 

His earlier praises of the wonders and climate of Tahoe had inspired hissister Pamela, always frail, with a desire to visit that health-givingland. Perhaps he felt that he recommended the country somewhat toohighly. 

"By George, Pamela, " he said, "I begin to fear that I have invoked aspirit of some kind or other, which I will find more than difficult toallay. " He proceeds to recommend California as a residence for any orall of them, but he is clearly doubtful concerning Nevada. 

 Some people are malicious enough to think that if the devil were set at liberty and told to confine himself to Nevada Territory, he would come here and look sadly around awhile, and then get homesick and go back to hell again . .. . Why, I have had my whiskers and mustaches so full of alkali dust that you'd have thought I worked in a starch factory and boarded in a flour barrel. 

But then he can no longer restrain his youth and optimism. How could he, with a fortune so plainly in view? It was already in his grasp inimagination; he was on the way home with it. 

 I expect to return to St. Louis in July--per steamer. I don't say that I will return then, or that I shall be able to do it--but I expect to--you bet. I came down here from Humboldt, in order to look after our Esmeralda interests. Yesterday, Bob Howland arrived here, and I have had a talk with him. He owns with me in the "Horatio and Derby" ledge. He says our tunnel is in 52 feet, and a small stream of water has been struck, which bids fair to become a "big thing" by the time the ledge is reached--sufficient to supply a mill. Now, if you knew anything of the value of water here, you would perceive at a glance that if the water should amount to 50 or 100 inches, we wouldn't care whether school kept or not. If the ledge should prove to be worthless, we'd sell the water for money enough to give us quite a lift. But, you see, the ledge will not prove to be worthless. We have located, near by, a fine site for a mill, and when we strike the ledge, you know, we'll have a mill- site, water-power, and payrock, all handy. Then we sha'n't care whether we have capital or not. Mill folks will build us a mill, and wait for their pay. If nothing goes wrong, we'll strike the ledge in June--and if we do, I'll be home in July, you know. 

He pauses at this point for a paragraph of self-analysis--characteristicand crystal-clear. 

 So, just keep your clothes on, Pamela, until I come. Don't you know that undemonstrated human calculations won't do to bet on? Don't you know that I have only talked, as yet, but proved nothing? Don't you know that I have expended money in this country but have made none myself? Don't you know that I have never held in my hands a gold or silver bar that belonged to me? Don't you know that it's all talk and no cider so far? Don't you know that people who always feel jolly, no matter where they are or what happens to them--who have the organ of Hope preposterously developed--who are endowed with an unconcealable sanguine temperament--who never feel concerned about the price of corn--and who cannot, by any possibility, discover any but the bright side of a picture--are very apt to go to extremes and exaggerate with 40-horse microscopic power?

 But-but In the bright lexicon of youth, There is no such word as Fail-- and I'll prove it!

Whereupon, he lets himself go again, full-tilt:

 By George, if I just had a thousand dollars I'd be all right! Now there's the "Horatio, " for instance. There are five or six shareholders in it, and I know I could buy half of their interests at, say $20 per foot, now that flour is worth $50 per barrel and they are pressed for money, but I am hard up myself, and can't buy --and in June they'll strike the ledge, and then "good-by canary. " I can't get it for love or money. Twenty dollars a foot! Think of it! For ground that is proven to be rich. Twenty dollars, Madam- and we wouldn't part with a foot of our 75 for five times the sum. So it will be in Humboldt next summer. The boys will get pushed and sell ground for a song that is worth a fortune. But I am at the helm now. I have convinced Orion that he hasn't business talent enough to carry on a peanut-stand, and he has solemnly promised me that he will meddle no more with mining or other matters not connected with the secretary's office. So, you see, if mines are to be bought or sold, or tunnels run or shafts sunk, parties have to come to me--and me only. I'm the "firm, " you know. 

There are pages of this, all glowing with golden expectations and plans. Ah, well! we have all written such letters home at one time andanother-of gold-mines of one form or another. 

He closes at last with a bit of pleasantry for his mother. 

 Ma says: "It looks like a man can't hold public office and be honest. " Why, certainly not, Madam. A man can't hold public office and be honest. Lord bless you, it is a common practice with Orion to go about town stealing little things that happen to be lying around loose. And I don't remember having heard him speak the truth since we have been in Nevada. He even tries to prevail upon me to do these things, Ma, but I wasn't brought up in that way, you know. You showed the public what you could do in that line when you raised me, Madam. But then you ought to have raised me first, so that Orion could have had the benefit of my example. Do you know that he stole all the stamps out of an 8-stamp quartz-mill one night, and brought them home under his overcoat and hid them in the back room?

XXXV

THE MINER

He had about exhausted his own funds by this time, and it was necessarythat Orion should become the financier. The brothers owned theirEsmeralda claims in partnership, and it was agreed that Orion, out of hismodest depleted pay, should furnish the means, while the other would goactively into the field and develop their riches. Neither had theslightest doubt but that they would be millionaires presently, and bothwere willing to struggle and starve for the few intervening weeks. 

It was February when the printer-pilot-miner arrived in Aurora, thatrough, turbulent camp of the Esmeralda district lying about one hundredmiles south of Carson City, on the edge of California, in the Sierraslopes. Everything was frozen and covered with snow; but there was nolack of excitement and prospecting and grabbing for "feet" in this ledgeand that, buried deep under the ice and drift. The new arrival campedwith Horatio Phillips (Raish), in a tiny cabin with a domestic roof (theruin of it still stands), and they cooked and bunked together andcombined their resources in a common fund. Bob Howland joined thempresently, and later an experienced miner, Calvin H. Higbie (Cal), oneday to be immortalized in the story of 'Roughing It' and in thededication of that book. Around the cabin stove they would gather, andpaw over their specimens, or test them with blow-pipe and "horn" spoon, after which they would plan tunnels and figure estimates of prospectivewealth. Never mind if the food was poor and scanty, and the chill windcame in everywhere, and the roof leaked like a filter; they were livingin a land where all the mountains were banked with nuggets, where all therivers ran gold. Bob Howland declared later that they used to go out atnight and gather up empty champagne-bottles and fruit-tins and pile themin the rear of their cabin to convey to others the appearance ofaffluence and high living. When they lacked for other employment andwere likely to be discouraged, the ex-pilot would "ride the bunk" andsmoke and, without money and without price, distribute riches morevaluable than any they would ever dig out of those Esmeralda Hills. Atother times he talked little or not at all, but sat in one corner andwrote, wholly oblivious of his surroundings. They thought he was writingletters, though letters were not many and only to Orion during thisperiod. It was the old literary impulse stirring again, the desire toset things down for their own sake, the natural hunger for print. One ortwo of his earlier letters home had found their way into a Keokuk paper--the 'Gate City'. Copies containing them had gone back to Orion, whohad shown them to a representative of the Territorial Enterprise, a youngman named Barstow, who thought them amusing. The Enterprise reprinted atleast one of these letters, or portions of it, and with thisencouragement the author of it sent an occasional contribution direct tothat paper over the pen-name "Josh. " He did not care to sign his ownname. He was a miner who was soon to be a magnate; he had no desire tobe known as a camp scribbler. 

He received no pay for these offerings, and expected none. They weresketches of a broadly burlesque sort, the robust horse-play kind of humorthat belongs to the frontier. They were not especially promisingefforts. One of them was about an old rackabones of a horse, a sort ofpreliminary study for "Oahu, " of the Sandwich Islands, or "Baalbec" and"Jericho, " of Syria. If any one had told him, or had told any reader ofthis sketch, that the author of it was knocking at the door of the houseof fame such a person's judgment or sincerity would have been open todoubt. Nevertheless, it was true, though the knock was timid and haltingand the summons to cross the threshold long delayed. 

A winter mining-camp is the most bleak and comfortless of places. Thesaloon and gambling-house furnished the only real warmth and cheer. OurAurora miners would have been less than human, or more, if they had notfound diversion now and then in the happy harbors of sin. Once there wasa great ball given at a newly opened pavilion, and Sam Clemens is said tohave distinguished himself by his unrestrained and spontaneous enjoymentof the tripping harmony. Cal Higbie, who was present, writes:

 In changing partners, whenever he saw a hand raised he would grasp it with great pleasure and sail off into another set, oblivious to his surroundings. Sometimes he would act as though there was no use in trying to go right or to dance like other people, and with his eyes closed he would do a hoe-down or a double-shuffle all alone, talking to himself and saying that he never dreamed there was so much pleasure to be obtained at a ball. It was all as natural as a child's play. By the second set, all the ladies were falling over themselves to get him for a partner, and most of the crowd, too full of mirth to dance, were standing or sitting around, dying with laughter. 

What a child he always was--always, to the very end? With the firstbreak of winter the excitement that had been fermenting and stewingaround camp stoves overflowed into the streets, washed up the gullies, and assailed the hills. There came then a period of madness, besidewhich the Humboldt excitement had been mere intoxication. Higbie says:

 It was amazing how wild the people became all over the Pacific coast. In San Francisco and other large cities barbers, hack- drivers, servant-girls, merchants, and nearly every class of people would club together and send agents representing all the way from $5, 000 to $500, 000 or more to buy mines. They would buy anything. In the shape of quartz, whether it contained any mineral value or not. 

The letters which went from the Aurora miner to Orion are humanlydocumentary. They are likely to be staccato in their movement; they shownervous haste in their composition, eagerness, and suppressed excitement;they are not always coherent; they are seldom humorous, except in asavage way; they are often profane; they are likely to be violent. Eventhe handwriting has a terse look; the flourish of youth has gone out ofit. Altogether they reveal the tense anxiety of the gambling mania ofwhich mining is the ultimate form. An extract from a letter of April isa fair exhibit:

 Work not yet begun on the "Horatio and Derby"--haven't seen it yet. It is still in the snow. Shall begin on it within 3 or 4 weeks --strike the ledge in July: Guess it is good--worth from $30 to $50 a foot in California. .. . 

 Man named Gebhart shot here yesterday while trying to defend a claim on Last Chance Hill. Expect he will die. 

 These mills here are not worth a d--n--except Clayton's--and it is not in full working trim yet. 

 Send me $40 or $50--by mail-immediately. I go to work to-morrow with pick and shovel. Something's got to come, by G--, before I let go here. 

By the end of April work had become active in the mines, though the snowin places was still deep and the ground stony with frost. On the 28th hewrites:

 I have been at work all day blasting and digging, and d--ning one of our new claims--"Dashaway"--which I don't think a great deal of, but which I am willing to try. We are down, now, 10 or 12 a feet. We are following down under the ledge, but not taking it out. If we get up a windlass to-morrow we shall take out the ledge, and see whether it is worth anything or not. 

It must have been hard work picking away at the flinty ledges in thecold; and the "Dashaway" would seem to have proven a disappointment, forthere is no promising mention of it again. Instead, we hear of the"Flyaway;" and "Annipolitan" and the "Live Yankee" and of a dozen others, each of which holds out the beacon of hope for a little while and thenpasses from notice forever. In May it is the "Monitor" that is sure tobring affluence, though realization is no longer regarded as immediate. 

 To use a French expression, I have "got my d---d satisfy" at last. Two years' time will make us capitalists, in spite of anything. 

 Therefore we need fret and fume and worry and doubt no more, but just lie still and put up with privation for six months. Perhaps 3 months will "let us out. " Then, if government refuses to pay the rent on your new office we can do it ourselves. We have got to wait six weeks, anyhow, for a dividend--maybe longer--but that it will come there is no shadow of a doubt. I have got the thing sifted down to a dead moral certainty. I own one-eighth of the new "Monitor Ledge, Clemens Company, " and money can't buy a foot of it; because I know it to contain our fortune. The ledge is six feet wide, and one needs no glass to see gold and silver in it. .. . 

 When you and I came out here we did not expect '63 or '64 to find us rich men--and if that proposition had been made we would have accepted it gladly. Now, it is made. I am willing, now, that "Neary's tunnel" or anybody else's tunnel shall succeed. Some of them may beat us a few months, but we shall be on hand in the fullness of time, as sure as fate. I would hate to swap chances with any member of the tribe . . . . 

It is the same man who twenty-five years later would fasten his faith andcapital to a type-setting machine and refuse to exchange stock in it, share for share, with the Mergenthaler linotype. He adds:

 But I have struck my tent in Esmeralda, and I care for no mines but those which I can superintend myself. I am a citizen here now, and I am satisfied, although Ratio and I are "strapped" and we haven't three days' rations in the house. .. . I shall work the "Monitor" and the other claims with my own hands. I prospected 3/4 of a pound of "Monitor" yesterday, and Raish reduced it with the blow-pipe, and got about 10 or 12 cents in gold and silver, besides the other half of it which we spilt on the floor and didn't get. .. . 

 I tried to break a handsome chunk from a huge piece of my darling "Monitor" which we brought from the croppings yesterday, but it all splintered up, and I send you the scraps. I call that "choice"--any d---d fool would. 

 Don't ask if it has been assayed, for it hasn't. It don't need it. It is simply able to speak for itself. It is six feet wide on top, and traversed through with veins whose color proclaims their worth. 

 What the devil does a man want with any more feet when he owns in the invincible bomb-proof "Monitor"?

There is much more of this, and other such letters, most of them endingwith demands for money. The living, the tools, the blasting-powder, andthe help eat it up faster than Orion's salary can grow. 

"Send me $50 or $100, all you can spare; put away $150 subject to mycall--we shall need it soon for the tunnel. " The letters are full ofsuch admonition, and Orion, more insane, if anything, than his brother, is scraping his dollars and pennies together to keep the mines going. Heis constantly warned to buy no claims on his own account and promisesfaithfully, but cannot resist now and then when luring baits are laidbefore him, though such ventures invariably result in violent and profaneprotests from Aurora. 

"The pick and shovel are the only claims I have any confidence in now, "the miner concludes, after one fierce outburst. "My back is sore, and myhands are blistered with handling them to-day. "

But even the pick and shovel did not inspire confidence a little later. He writes that the work goes slowly, very slowly, but that they stillhope to strike it some day. "But--if we strike it rich--I've lost myguess, that's all. " Then he adds: "Couldn't go on the hill to-day. Itsnowed. It always snows here, I expect"; and the final heart-sick line, "Don't you suppose they have pretty much quit writing at home?"

This is midsummer, and snow still interferes with the work. One feelsthe dreary uselessness of the quest. 

Yet resolution did not wholly die, or even enthusiasm. These things wereas recurrent as new prospects, which were plentiful enough. In a stillsubsequent letter he declares that he will never look upon his mother'sface again, or his sister's, or get married, or revisit the "BannerState, " until he is a rich man, though there is less assurance thandesperation in the words. 

In 'Roughing It' the author tells us that, when flour had reached onedollar a pound and he could no longer get the dollar, he abandoned miningand went to milling "as a common laborer in a quartz-mill at ten dollarsa week. " This statement requires modification. It was not entirely forthe money that he undertook the laborious task of washing "riffles" and"screening tailings. " The money was welcome enough, no doubt, but thegreater purpose was to learn refining, so that when his mines developedhe could establish his own mill and personally superintend the work. Itis like him to wish us to believe that he was obliged to give up being amining magnate to become a laborer in a quartz-mill, for there is a grimhumor in the confession. That he abandoned the milling experiment at theend of a week is a true statement. He got a violent cold in the dampplace, and came near getting salivated, he says in a letter, "working inthe quicksilver and chemicals. I hardly think I shall try the experimentagain. It is a confining business, and I will not be confined for loveor money. "

As recreation after this trying experience, Higbie took him on a tour, prospecting for the traditional "Cement Mine, " a lost claim where, in adeposit of cement rock, gold nuggets were said to be as thick as raisinsin a fruitcake. They did not find the mine, but they visited Mono Lake--that ghastly, lifeless alkali sea among the hills, which in 'RoughingIt' he has so vividly pictured. It was good to get away from the stressof things; and they repeated the experiment. They made a walking trip toYosemite, carrying their packs, camping and fishing in that far, tremendous isolation, which in those days few human beings had evervisited at all. Such trips furnished a delicious respite from thefevered struggle around tunnel and shaft. Amid mountain-peaks and giantforests and by tumbling falls the quest for gold hardly seemed worthwhile. More than once that summer he went alone into the wilderness tofind his balance and to get away entirely from humankind. 

XXXVI

LAST MINING DAYS

It was late in July when he wrote:

 If I do not forget it, I will send you, per next mail, a pinch of decom. (decomposed rock) which I pinched with thumb and finger from Wide West ledge a while ago. Raish and I have secured 200 out of a company with 400 ft. In it, which perhaps (the ledge, I mean) is a spur from the W. W. --our shaft is about 100 ft. From the W. W. Shaft. In order to get in, we agreed to sink 30 ft. We have sublet to another man for 50 ft. , and we pay for powder and sharpening tools. 

This was the "Blind Lead" claim of Roughing It, but the episode as setdown in that book is somewhat dramatized. It is quite true that hevisited and nursed Captain Nye while Higbie was off following the"Cement" 'ignus fatuus' and that the "Wide West" holdings were forfeitedthrough neglect. But if the loss was regarded as a heavy one, theletters fail to show it. It is a matter of dispute to-day whether or notthe claim was ever of any value. A well-known California author--[EllaSterling Cummins, author of The Story of the Files, etc]--declares:

 No one need to fear that he ran any chance of being a millionaire through the "Wide West" mine, for the writer, as a child, played over that historic spot and saw only a shut-down mill and desolate hole in the ground to mark the spot where over-hopeful men had sunk thousands and thousands, that they never recovered. 

The "Blind Lead" episode, as related, is presumably a tale of what mighthave happened--a possibility rather than an actuality. It is vividlytrue in atmosphere, however, and forms a strong and natural climax forclosing the mining episode, while the literary privilege warrants anyliberties he may have taken for art's sake. 

In reality the close of his mining career was not sudden and spectacular;it was a lingering close, a reluctant and gradual surrender. The "Josh"letters to the Enterprise had awakened at least a measure of interest, and Orion had not failed to identify their author when any promisingoccasion offered; as a result certain tentative overtures had been madefor similar material. Orion eagerly communicated such chances, for themoney situation was becoming a desperate one. A letter from the Auroraminer written near the end of July presents the situation very fully. Anextract or two will be sufficient:

 My debts are greater than I thought for--I bought $25 worth of clothing and sent $25 to Higbie, in the cement diggings. I owe about $45 or $50, and have got about $45 in my pocket. But how in the h--l I am going to live on something over $100 until October or November is singular. The fact is, I must have something to do, and that shortly, too. .. . Now write to the Sacramento Union folks, or to Marsh, and tell them I'll write as many letters a week as they want for $10 a week. My board must be paid. Tell them I have corresponded with the N. Orleans Crescent and other papers--and the Enterprise. 

 If they want letters from here--who'll run from morning till night collecting material cheaper? I'll write a short letter twice a week, for the present for the 'Age', for $5 per week. Now it has been a long time since I couldn't make my own living, and it shall be a long time before I loaf another year. 

Nothing came of these possibilities, but about this time Barstow, of theEnterprise, conferred with Joseph T. Goodman, editor and owner of thepaper, as to the advisability of adding the author of the "Josh" lettersto their local staff. Joe Goodman, who had as keen a literary perceptionas any man that ever pitched a journalistic tent on the Pacific coast(and there could be no higher praise than that), looked over the lettersand agreed with Barstow that the man who wrote them had "something inhim. " Two of the sketches in particular he thought promising. One ofthem was a burlesque report of an egotistical lecturer who was referredto as "Professor Personal Pronoun. " It closed by stating that it was"impossible to print his lecture in full, as the type-cases had run outof capital I's. " But it was the other sketch which settled Goodman'sdecision. It was also a burlesque report, this time of a Fourth-of-Julyoration. It opened, "I was sired by the Great American Eagle and foaledby a continental dam. " This was followed by a string of stock patrioticphrases absurdly arranged. But it was the opening itself that wonGoodman's heart. 

"That is the sort of thing we want, " he said. "Write to him, Barstow, and ask him if he wants to come up here. "

Barstow wrote, offering twenty-five dollars a week, a tempting sum. Thiswas at the end of July, 1862. 

In 'Roughing It' we are led to believe that the author regarded this as agift from heaven and accepted it straightaway. As a matter of fact, hefasted and prayed a good while over the "call. " To Orion he wroteBarstow has offered me the post as local reporter for the Enterprise at$25 a week, and I have written him that I will let him know next mail, ifpossible. 

There was no desperate eagerness, you see, to break into literature, evenunder those urgent conditions. It meant the surrender of all hope in themines, the confession of another failure. On August 7th he wrote againto Orion. He had written to Barstow, he said, asking when they thoughthe might be needed. He was playing for time to consider. 

Now, I shall leave at midnight to-night, alone and on foot, for a walk of60 or 70 miles through a totally uninhabited country, and it is barelypossible that mail facilities may prove infernally "slow. " But do youwrite Barstow that I have left here for a week or so, and in case heshould want me, he must write me here, or let me know through you. 

So he had gone into the wilderness to fight out his battle alone. Buteight days later, when he had returned, there was still no decision. Ina letter to Pamela of this date he refers playfully to the discomforts ofhis cabin and mentions a hope that he will spend the winter in SanFrancisco; but there is no reference in it to any newspaper prospects--nor to the mines, for that matter. Phillips, Howland, and Higbie wouldseem to have given up by this time, and he was camping with Dan Twing anda dog, a combination amusingly described. It is a pleasant enoughletter, but the note of discouragement creeps in:

 I did think for a while of going home this fall--but when I found that that was, and had been, the cherished intention and the darling aspiration every year of these old care-worn Californians for twelve weary years, I felt a little uncomfortable, so I stole a march on Disappointment and said I would not go home this fall. This country suits me, and it shall suit me whether or no. 

He was dying hard, desperately hard; how could he know, to paraphrase theold form of Christian comfort, that his end as a miner would mean, inanother sphere, "a brighter resurrection" than even his rainbowimagination could paint?

XXXVII

THE NEW ESTATE

It was the afternoon of a hot, dusty August day when a worn, travel-stained pilgrim drifted laggingly into the office of the VirginiaCity Enterprise, then in its new building on C Street, and, loosening aheavy roll of blankets from his shoulders, dropped wearily into a chair. He wore a rusty slouch hat, no coat, a faded blue flannel shirt, a Navyrevolver; his trousers were hanging on his boot tops. A tangle ofreddish-brown hair fell on his shoulders, and a mass of tawny beard, dingy with alkali dust, dropped half-way to his waist. 

Aurora lay one hundred and thirty miles from Virginia. He had walkedthat distance, carrying his heavy load. Editor Goodman was absent at themoment, but the other proprietor, Denis E. McCarthy, signified that thecaller might state his errand. The wanderer regarded him with a far-awaylook and said, absently and with deliberation:

"My starboard leg seems to be unshipped. I'd like about one hundredyards of line; I think I am falling to pieces. " Then he added: "I wantto see Mr. Barstow, or Mr. Goodman. My name is Clemens, and I've come towrite for the paper. "

It was the master of the world's widest estate come to claim his kingdom:

William Wright, who had won a wide celebrity on the Coast as Dan deQuille, was in the editorial chair and took charge of the new arrival. Hewas going on a trip to the States soon; it was mainly on this accountthat the new man had been engaged. The "Josh" letters were very good, inDan's opinion; he gave their author a cordial welcome, and took himaround to his boarding-place. It was the beginning of an associationthat continued during Samuel Clemens's stay in Virginia City and of afriendship that lasted many years. 

The Territorial Enterprise was one of the most remarkable frontier papersever published. Its editor-in-chief, Joseph Goodman, was a man with rareappreciation, wide human understanding, and a comprehensive newspaperpolicy. Being a young man, he had no policy, in fact, beyond the generalpurpose that his paper should be a forum for absolutely free speech, provided any serious statement it contained was based upon knowledge. Hisinstructions to the new reporter were about as follows:

"Never say we learn so and so, or it is rumored, or we understand so andso; but go to headquarters and get the absolute facts; then speak out andsay it is so and so. In the one case you are likely to be shot, and inthe other you are pretty certain to be; but you will preserve the publicconfidence. "

Goodman was not new to the West. He had come to California as a boy andhad been a miner, explorer, printer, and contributor by turns. Early in'61, when the Comstock Lode--[Named for its discoverer, Henry T. P. Comstock, a half-crazy miner, who realized very little from hisstupendous find. ]--was new and Virginia in the first flush of its monsterboom, he and Denis McCarthy had scraped together a few dollars and boughtthe paper. It had been a hand-to-hand struggle for a while, but in abrief two years, from a starving sheet in a shanty the Enterprise, withnew building, new presses, and a corps of swift compositors brought upfrom San Francisco, had become altogether metropolitan, as well as themost widely considered paper on the Coast. It had been borne upward bythe Comstock tide, though its fearless, picturesque utterance would havegiven it distinction anywhere. Goodman himself was a fine, forcefulwriter, and Dan de Quille and R. M. Daggett (afterward United Statesminister to Hawaii) were representative of Enterprise men. --[The Comstockof that day became famous for its journalism. Associated with theVirginia papers then or soon afterward were such men as Tom Fitch (thesilver-tongued orator), Alf Doten, W. J. Forbes, C. C. Goodwin, H. R. Mighels, Clement T. Rice, Arthur McEwen, and Sam Davis--a great arrayindeed for a new Territory. ]--Samuel Clemens fitted precisely into thisgroup. He added the fresh, rugged vigor of thought and expression thatwas the very essence of the Comstock, which was like every other frontiermining-camp, only on a more lavish, more overwhelming scale. 

There was no uncertainty about the Comstock; the silver and gold werethere. Flanking the foot of Mount Davidson, the towns of Gold Hill andVirginia and the long street between were fairly underburrowed andunderpinned by the gigantic mining construction of that opulent lodewhose treasures were actually glutting the mineral markets of the world. The streets overhead seethed and swarmed with miners, mine owners, andadventurers--riotous, rollicking children of fortune, always ready todrink and make merry, as eager in their pursuit of pleasure as of gold. Comstockers would always laugh at a joke; the rougher the better. Thetown of Virginia itself was just a huge joke to most of them. Everybodyhad, money; everybody wanted to laugh and have a good time. TheEnterprise, "Comstock to the backbone, " did what it could to help thingsalong. 

It was a sort of free ring, with every one for himself. Goodman let theboys write and print in accordance with their own ideas and upon anysubject. Often they wrote of each other--squibs and burlesques, whichgratified the Comstock far more than mere news. --[The indifference to'news' was noble--none the less so because it was so blissfullyunconscious. Editors Mark or Dan would dismiss a murder with a couple ofinches and sit down and fill up a column with a fancy sketch: "ArthurMcEwen"]--It was the proper class-room for Mark Twain, an encouragingaudience and free utterance: fortune could have devised nothing betterfor him than that. 

He was peculiarly fitted for the position. Unspoiled humanity appealedto him, and the Comstock presented human nature in its earliest landscapeforms. Furthermore, the Comstock was essentially optimistic--so was he;any hole in the ground to him held a possible, even a probable, fortune. 

His pilot memory became a valuable asset in news-gathering. Rememberingmarks, banks, sounding, and other river detail belonged apparently in thesame category of attainments as remembering items and localities of news. He could travel all day without a note-book and at night reproduce theday's budget or at least the picturesqueness of it, without error. Hewas presently accounted a good reporter, except where statistics--measurements and figures--were concerned. These he gave "a lick and apromise, " according to De Quille, who wrote afterward of theirassociations. De Quille says further:

 Mark and I agreed well in our work, which we divided when there was a rush of events; but we often cruised in company, he taking the items of news he could handle best, and I such as I felt competent to work up. However, we wrote at the same table and frequently helped each other with such suggestions as occurred to us during the brief consultations we held in regard to the handling of any matters of importance. Never was there an angry word between us in all the time we worked together. 

De Quille tells how Clemens clipped items with a knife when there were noscissors handy, and slashed through on the top of his desk, which in timetook on the semblance "of a huge polar star, spiritedly dashing forth athousand rays. "

The author of 'Roughing It' has given us a better picture of the VirginiaCity of those days and his work there than any one else will ever write. He has made us feel the general spirit of affluence that prevailed; howthe problem was not to get money, but to spend it; how "feet" in any oneof a hundred mines could be had for the asking; how such shares wereoffered like apples or cigars or bonbons, as a natural matter of courtesywhen one happened to have his supply in view; how any one connected witha newspaper would have stocks thrust upon him, and how in a brief time hehad acquired a trunk ful of such riches and usually had something to sellwhen any of the claims made a stir on the market. He has told us of thedesperadoes and their trifling regard for human life, and preserved otherelemental characters of these prodigal days. The funeral of Buck Fanshawthat amazing masterpiece--is a complete epitome of the social frontier. 

It would not be the part of wisdom to attempt another inclusivepresentation of Comstock conditions. We may only hope to add a fewdetails of history, justified now by time and circumstances, tosupplement the picture with certain data of personality preserved fromthe drift of years. 

XXXVIII

ONE OF THE "STAFF"

The new reporter found acquaintance easy. The office force was like onefamily among which there was no line of caste. Proprietors, editors, andprinters were social equals; there was little ceremony among them--noneat all outside of the office. --["The paper went to press at two in themorning, then all the staff and all the compositors gathered themselvestogether in the composing-room and drank beer and sang the popularwar-songs of the day until dawn. "--S. L. C. , in 1908. ]--Samuel Clemensimmediately became "Sam, " or "Josh, " to his associates, just as De Quillewas "Dan" and Goodman "Joe. " He found that he disliked the name of Josh, and, as he did not sign it again, it was presently dropped. The office, and Virginia City generally, quickly grew fond of him, delighting in hisoriginality and measured speech. Enterprise readers began to identifyhis work, then unsigned, and to enjoy its fresh phrasing, even when itwas only the usual local item or mining notice. True to its name andreputation, the paper had added a new attraction. 

It was only a brief time after his arrival in Virginia City that Clemensbegan the series of hoaxes which would carry his reputation, not alwaysin an enviable fashion, across the Sierras and down the Pacific coast. With one exception these are lost to-day, for so far as known there isnot a single file of the Enterprise in existence. Only a few straycopies and clippings are preserved, but we know the story of some ofthese literary pranks and of their results. They were usually intendedas a special punishment of some particular individual or paper orlocality; but victims were gathered by the wholesale in their seductiveweb. Mark Twain himself, in his book of Sketches, has set down somethingconcerning the first of these, "The Petrified Man, " and of another, "MyBloody Massacre, " but in neither case has he told it all. "The PetrifiedMan" hoax was directed at an official named Sewall, a coroner and justiceof the peace at Humboldt, who had been pompously indifferent in thematter of supplying news. The story, told with great circumstance andapparent care as to detail, related the finding of a petrifiedprehistoric man, partially imbedded in a rock, in a cave in the desertmore than one hundred miles from Humboldt, and how Sewall had made theperilous five-day journey in the alkali waste to hold an inquest over aman that had been dead three hundred years; also how, "with that delicacyso characteristic of him, " Sewall had forbidden the miners from blastinghim from his position. The account further stated that the hands of thedeceased were arranged in a peculiar fashion; and the description of thearrangement was so skilfully woven in with other matters that at first, or even second, reading one might not see that the position indicated wasthe ancient one which begins with the thumb at the nose and in many ageshas been used impolitely to express ridicule and the word "sold. " Butthe description was a shade too ingenious. The author expected that theexchanges would see the jolt and perhaps assist in the fun he would havewith Sewall. He did not contemplate a joke on the papers themselves. Asa matter of fact, no one saw the "sell" and most of the papers printedhis story of the petrified man as a genuine discovery. This was asurprise, and a momentary disappointment; then he realized that he hadbuilded better than he knew. He gathered up a bundle of the exchangesand sent them to Sewall; also he sent marked copies to scientific men invarious parts of the United States. The papers had taken it seriously;perhaps the scientists would. Some of them did, and Sewall's days becameunhappy because of letters received asking further information. Asliterature, the effort did not rank high, and as a trick on an obscureofficial it was hardly worth while; but, as a joke on the Coast exchangesand press generally, it was greatly regarded and its author, though asyet unnamed, acquired prestige. 

Inquiries began to be made as to who was the smart chap in Virginia thatdid these things. The papers became wary and read Enterprise items twicebefore clipping them. Clemens turned his attention to other matters tolull suspicion. The great "Dutch Nick Massacre" did not follow until ayear later. 

Reference has already been made to the Comstock's delight in humor of apositive sort. The practical joke was legal tender in Virginia. Onemight protest and swear, but he must take it. An example of Comstockhumor, regarded as the finest assay, is an incident still told of LeslieBlackburn and Pat Holland, two gay men about town. They were coming downC Street one morning when they saw some fine watermelons on a fruit-standat the International Hotel corner. Watermelons were rare and costly inthat day and locality, and these were worth three dollars apiece. Blackburn said:

"Pat, let's get one of those watermelons. You engage that fellow inconversation while I stand at the corner, where I can step around out ofsight easily. When you have got him interested, point to something onthe back shelf and pitch me a melon. "

This appealed to Holland, and he carried out his part of the planperfectly; but when he pitched the watermelon Blackburn simply put hishands in his pockets, and stepped around the corner, leaving the melon afearful disaster on the pavement. It was almost impossible for Pat toexplain to the fruit-man why he pitched away a three-dollar melon likethat even after paying for it, and it was still more trying, also moreexpensive, to explain to the boys facing the various bars along C Street. 

Sam Clemens, himself a practical joker in his youth, found a healthydelight in this knock-down humor of the Comstock. It appealed to hisvigorous, elemental nature. He seldom indulged physically in suchthings; but his printed squibs and hoaxes and his keen love of theridiculous placed him in the joker class, while his prompt temper, drollmanner, and rare gift of invective made him an enticing victim. 

Among the Enterprise compositors was one by the name of Stephen E. Gillis(Steve, of course--one of the "fighting Gillises"), a small, fearlessyoung fellow, handsome, quick of wit, with eyes like needle-points. 

"Steve weighed only ninety-five pounds, " Mark Twain once wrote of him, "but it was well known throughout the Territory that with his fists hecould whip anybody that walked on two legs, let his weight and science bewhat they might. "

Clemens was fond of Steve Gillis from the first. The two became closelyassociated in time, and were always bosom friends; but Steve was amerciless joker, and never as long as they were together could he "resistthe temptation of making Sam swear, " claiming that his profanity wasgrander than any music. 

A word hereabout Mark Twain's profanity. Born with a matchless gift ofphrase, the printing-office, the river, and the mines had developed it ina rare perfection. To hear him denounce a thing was to give one thefierce, searching delight of galvanic waves. Every characterizationseemed the most perfect fit possible until he applied the next. Andsomehow his profanity was seldom an offense. It was not mere idleswearing; it seemed always genuine and serious. His selection of epithetwas always dignified and stately, from whatever source--and it might befrom the Bible or the gutter. Some one has defined dirt as misplacedmatter. It is perhaps the greatest definition ever uttered. It isabsolutely universal in its application, and it recurs now, rememberingMark Twain's profanity. For it was rarely misplaced; hence it did notoften offend. It seemed, in fact, the safety-valve of his high-pressureintellectual engine. When he had blown off he was always calm, gentle;forgiving, and even tender. Once following an outburst he said, placidly:

"In certain trying circumstances, urgent circumstances, desperatecircumstances, profanity furnishes a relief denied even to prayer. "

It seems proper to add that it is not the purpose of this work to magnifyor modify or excuse that extreme example of humankind which forms itschief subject; but to set him down as he was inadequately, of course, butwith good conscience and clear intent. 

Led by Steve Gillis, the Enterprise force used to devise tricks to sethim going. One of these was to hide articles from his desk. He detestedthe work necessary to the care of a lamp, and wrote by the light of acandle. To hide "Sam's candle" was a sure way to get prompt and vigorousreturn. He would look for it a little; then he would begin a slow, circular walk--a habit acquired in the limitations of the pilot-house--and his denunciation of the thieves was like a great orchestration ofwrong. By and by the office boy, supposedly innocent, would find anotherfor him, and all would be forgotten. He made a placard, labeled withfearful threats and anathemas, warning any one against touching hiscandle; but one night both the placard and the candle were gone. 

Now, amoung his Virginia acquaintances was a young minister, a Mr. Rising, "the fragile, gentle new fledgling" of the Buck Fanshaw episode. Clemens greatly admired Mr. Rising's evident sincerity, and the youngminister had quickly recognized the new reporter's superiority of mind. Now and then he came to the office to call on him. Unfortunately, hehappened to step in just at that moment when, infuriated by the latesttheft of his property, Samuel Clemens was engaged in his rotarydenunciation of the criminals, oblivious of every other circumstance. Mr. Rising stood spellbound by this, to him, new phase of genius, and at lasthis friend became dimly aware of him. He did not halt in his scathingtreadmill and continued in the slow monotone of speech:

"I know, Mr. Rising, I know it's wicked to talk like this; I know it iswrong. I know I shall certainly go to hell for it. But if you had acandle, Mr. Rising, and those thieves should carry it off every night, Iknow that you would say, just as I say, Mr. Rising, G-d d--n theirimpenitent souls, may they roast in hell for a million years. "

The little clergyman caught his breath. 

"Maybe I should, Mr. Clemens, " he replied, "but I should try to say, 'Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do. '"

"Oh, well! if you put it on the ground that they are just fools, thatalters the case, as I am one of that class myself. Come in and we'll tryto forgive them and forget about it. "

Mark Twain had a good many experiences with young ministers. He wasalways fond of them, and they often sought him out. Once, longafterward, at a hotel, he wanted a boy to polish his shoes, and had runga number of times without getting any response. Presently, he thought heheard somebody approaching in the hall outside. He flung open the door, and a small, youngish-looking person, who seemed to have been hesitatingat the door, made a movement as though to depart hastily. Clemensgrabbed him by the collar. 

"Look here, " he said, "I've been waiting and ringing here for half anhour. Now I want you to take those shoes, and polish them, quick. Doyou hear?"

The slim, youthful person trembled a good deal, and said: "I would, Mr. Clemens, I would indeed, sir, if I could. But I'm a minister of theGospel, and I'm not prepared for such work. "

XXXIX

PHILOSOPHY AND POETRY

There was a side to Samuel Clemens that in those days few of hisassociates saw. This was the poetic, the philosophic, the contemplativeside. Joseph Goodman recognized this phase of his character, and, whilehe perhaps did not regard it as a future literary asset, he delighted init, and in their hours of quiet association together encouraged itsexhibition. It is rather curious that with all his literary penetrationGoodman did not dream of a future celebrity for Clemens. He afterwardsaid:

"If I had been asked to prophesy which of the two men, Dan de Quille orSam, would become distinguished, I should have said De Quille. Dan wastalented, industrious, and, for that time and place, brilliant. Ofcourse, I recognized the unusualness of Sam's gifts, but he was eccentricand seemed to lack industry; it is not likely that I should haveprophesied fame for him then. "

Goodman, like MacFarlane in Cincinnati, half a dozen years before, thoughby a different method, discovered and developed the deeper vein. Oftenthe two, dining together in a French restaurant, discussed life, subtlerphilosophies, recalled various phases of human history, remembered andrecited the poems that gave them especial enjoyment. "The Burial ofMoses, " with its noble phrasing and majestic imagery, appealed stronglyto Clemens, and he recited it with great power. The first stanza inparticular always stirred him, and it stirred his hearer as well. Witheyes half closed and chin lifted, a lighted cigar between his fingers, hewould lose himself in the music of the stately lines. 

 By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave. 

 And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God, upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there. 

Another stanza that he cared for almost as much was the one beginning:

 And had he not high honor --The hill-side for a pall, To lie in state while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave?

Without doubt he was moved to emulate the simple grandeur of that poem, for he often repeated it in those days, and somewhat later we find itcopied into his notebook in full. It would seem to have become to him asort of literary touchstone; and in some measure it may be regarded asaccountable for the fact that in the fullness of time "he made use of thepurest English of any modern writer. " These are Goodman's words, thoughWilliam Dean Howells has said them, also, in substance, and BranderMatthews, and many others who know about such things. Goodman adds, "Thesimplicity and beauty of his style are almost without a parallel, exceptin the common version of the Bible, " which is also true. One is remindedof what Macaulay said of Milton:

"There would seem at first sight to be no more in his words than in otherwords. But they are words of enchantment. No sooner are they pronouncedthan the past is present and the distance near. New forms of beautystart at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memorygive up their dead. "

One drifts ahead, remembering these things. The triumph of words, themastery of phrases, lay all before him at the time of which we arewriting now. He was twenty-seven. At that age Rudyard Kipling hadreached his meridian. Samuel Clemens was still in the classroom. Everything came as a lesson-phrase, form, aspect, and combination;nothing escaped unvalued. The poetic phase of things particularlyimpressed him. Once at a dinner with Goodman, when the lamp-light fromthe chandelier struck down through the claret on the tablecloth in agreat red stain, he pointed to it dramatically "Look, Joe, " he said, "theangry tint of wine. "

It was at one of these private sessions, late in '62, that Clemensproposed to report the coming meeting of the Carson legislature. He knewnothing of such work and had small knowledge of parliamentaryproceedings. Formerly it had been done by a man named Gillespie, butGillespie was now clerk of the house. Goodman hesitated; then, remembering that whether Clemens got the reports right or not, he wouldat least make them readable, agreed to let him undertake the work. 

XL

"MARK TWAIN"

The early Nevada legislature was an interesting assembly. All Statelegislatures are that, and this was a mining frontier. No attempt can bemade to describe it. It was chiefly distinguished for a large ignoranceof procedure, a wide latitude of speech, a noble appreciation of humor, and plenty of brains. How fortunate Mask Twain was in his schooling, tobe kept away from institutional training, to be placed in one afteranother of those universities of life where the sole curriculum is thestudy of the native inclinations and activities of mankind! Sometimes, in after-years, he used to regret the lack of systematic training. Wellfor him--and for us--that he escaped that blight. 

For the study of human nature the Nevada assembly was a veritablelecture-room. In it his understanding, his wit, his phrasing, hisself-assuredness grew like Jack's bean-stalk, which in time was ready tobreak through into a land above the sky. He made some curious blundersin his reports, in the beginning; but he was so frank in his ignoranceand in his confession of it that the very unsophistication of his earlyletters became their chief charm. Gillespie coached him on parliamentarymatters, and in time the reports became technically as well asartistically good. Clemens in return christened Gillespie "Young, Jefferson's Manual, " a title which he bore, rather proudly indeed, formany years. 

Another "entitlement" growing out of those early reports, and possiblyless satisfactory to its owner, was the one accorded to Clement T. Rice, of the Virginia City Union. Rice knew the legislative work perfectly andconcluded to poke fun at the Enterprise letters. 

But this was a mistake. Clemens in his next letter declared that Rice'sreports might be parliamentary enough, but that they covered withglittering technicalities the most festering mass of misstatement, andeven crime. He avowed that they were wholly untrustworthy; dubbed theauthor of them "The Unreliable, " and in future letters never referred tohim by any other term. Carson and the Comstock and the papers of theCoast delighted in this burlesque journalistic warfare, and Rice was "TheUnreliable" for life. 

Rice and Clemens, it should be said, though rivals, were the best offriends, and there was never any real animosity between them. 

Clemens quickly became a favorite with the members; his sharp letters, with their amusing turn of phrase and their sincerity, won generalfriendship. Jack Simmons, speaker of the house, and Billy Clagget, theHumboldt delegation, were his special cronies and kept him on the insideof the political machine. Clagget had remained in Unionville after themining venture, warned his Keokuk sweetheart, and settled down intopolitics and law. In due time he would become a leading light and go toCongress. He was already a notable figure of forceful eloquence andtousled, unkempt hair. Simmons, Clagget, and Clemens were easily thethree conspicuous figures of the session. 

It must have been gratifying to the former prospector and miner to comeback to Carson City a person of consequence, where less than a yearbefore he had been regarded as no more than an amusing indolent fellow, afigure to smile at, but unimportant. There is a photograph extant ofClemens and his friends Clagget and Simmons in a group, and we gatherfrom it that he now arrayed himself in a long broadcloth cloak, astarched shirt, and polished boots. Once more he had become the glass offashion that he had been on the river. He made his residence with Orion, whose wife and little daughter Jennie had by this time come out from theStates. "Sister Mollie, " as wife of the acting governor, was presentlysocial leader of the little capital; her brilliant brother-in-law itschief ornament. His merriment and songs and good nature made him afavorite guest. His lines had fallen in pleasant places; he could affordto smile at the hard Esmeralda days. 

He was not altogether satisfied. His letters, copied and quoted allalong the Coast, were unsigned. They were easily identified with oneanother, but not with a personality. He realized that to build areputation it was necessary to fasten it to an individuality, a name. 

He gave the matter a good deal of thought. He did not consider the useof his own name; the 'nom de plume' was the fashion of the time. Hewanted something brief, crisp, definite, unforgettable. He tried over agood many combinations in his mind, but none seemed convincing. Justthen--this was early in 1863--news came to him that the old pilot he hadwounded by his satire, Isaiah Sellers, was dead. At once the pen-name ofCaptain Sellers recurred to him. That was it; that was the sort of namehe wanted. It was not trivial; it had all the qualities--Sellers wouldnever need it again. Clemens decided he would give it a new meaning andnew association in this far-away land. He went up to Virginia City. 

"Joe, " he said, to Goodman, "I want to sign my articles. I want to beidentified to a wider audience. "

"All right, Sam. What name do you want to use 'Josh'?"

"No, I want to sign them 'Mark Twain. ' It is an old river term, aleads-man's call, signifying two fathoms--twelve feet. It has a richnessabout it; it was always a pleasant sound for a pilot to hear on a darknight; it meant safe water. "

He did not then mention that Captain Isaiah Sellers had used and droppedthe name. He was ashamed of his part in that episode, and the offensewas still too recent for confession. Goodman considered a moment:

"Very well, Sam, " he said, "that sounds like a good name. "

It was indeed a good name. In all the nomenclature of the world no moreforceful combination of words could have been selected to express the manfor whom they stood. The name Mark Twain is as infinite, as fundamentalas that of John Smith, without the latter's wasting distribution ofstrength. If all the prestige in the name of John Smith were combined ina single individual, its dynamic energy might give it the carrying powerof Mark Twain. Let this be as it may, it has proven the greatest 'nom deplume' ever chosen--a name exactly in accord with the man, his work, andhis career. 

It is not surprising that Goodman did not recognize this at the moment. We should not guess the force that lies in a twelve-inch shell if we hadnever seen one before or heard of its seismic destruction. We shouldhave to wait and see it fired, and take account of the result. 

It was first signed to a Carson letter bearing date of February 2, 1863, and from that time was attached to all Samuel Clemens's work. The workwas neither better nor worse than before, but it had suddenly acquiredidentification and special interest. Members of the legislature andfriends in Virginia and Carson immediately began to address him as"Mark. " The papers of the Coast took it up, and within a period to bemeasured by weeks he was no longer "Sam" or "Clemens" or "that brightchap on the Enterprise, " but "Mark"--"Mark Twain. " No 'nom de plume' wasever so quickly and generally accepted as that. De Quille, returningfrom the East after an absence of several months, found his room anddeskmate with the distinction of a new name and fame. 

It is curious that in the letters to the home folks preserved from thatperiod there is no mention of his new title and its success. In fact, the writer rarely speaks of his work at all, and is more inclined to tellof the mining shares he has accumulated, their present and prospectivevalues. However, many of the letters are undoubtedly missing. Such ashave been preserved are rather airy epistles full of his abounding joy oflife and good nature. Also they bear evidence of the renewal of his oldriver habit of sending money home--twenty dollars in each letter, withintervals of a week or so between. 

XLI

THE CREAM OF COMSTOCK HUMOR

With the adjournment of the legislature, Samuel Clemens returned toVirginia City distinctly a notability--Mark Twain. He was regarded asleading man on the Enterprise--which in itself was high distinction onthe Comstock--while his improved dress and increased prosperity commandedadditional respect. When visitors of note came along--well-known actors, lecturers, politicians--he was introduced as one of the Comstock featureswhich it was proper to see, along with the Ophir and Gould and Currymines, and the new hundred-stamp quartz-mill. 

He was rather grieved and hurt, therefore, when, after severalcollections had been taken up in the Enterprise office to present variousmembers of the staff with meerschaum pipes, none had come to him. Hementioned this apparent slight to Steve Gillis:

"Nobody ever gives me a meerschaum pipe, " he said, plaintively. "Don't Ideserve one yet?"

Unhappy day! To that remorseless creature, Steve Gillis, this was agolden opportunity for deviltry of a kind that delighted his soul. Thisis the story, precisely as Gillis himself told it to the writer of theseannals more than a generation later:

"There was a German kept a cigar store in Virginia City and always had afine assortment of meerschaum pipes. These pipes usually cost anywherefrom forty to seventy-five dollars. 

"One day Denis McCarthy and I were walking by the old German's place, andstopped to look in at the display in the window. Among other thingsthere was one large imitation meerschaum with a high bowl and a longstem, marked a dollar and a half. 

"I decided that that would be just the pipe for Sam. We went in andbought it, also a very much longer stem. I think the stem alone costthree dollars. Then we had a little German-silver plate engraved withMark's name on it and by whom presented, and made preparations for thepresentation. Charlie Pope--[afterward proprietor of Pope's Theater, St. Louis]--was playing at the Opera House at the time, and we engaged him tomake the presentation speech. 

"Then we let in Dan de Quille, Mark's closest friend, to act the part ofJudas--to tell Mark privately that he, was going to be presented with afine pipe, so that he could have a speech prepared in reply to Pope's. Itwas awful low-down in Dan. We arranged to have the affair come off inthe saloon beneath the Opera House after the play was over. 

"Everything went off handsomely; but it was a pretty remorseful occasion, and some of us had a hang-dog look; for Sam took it in such sincerity, and had prepared one of the most beautiful speeches I ever heard himmake. Pope's presentation, too, was beautifully done. He told Sam howhis friends all loved him, and that this pipe, purchased at so great anexpense, was but a small token of their affection. But Sam's reply, which was supposed to be impromptu, actually brought the tears to theeyes of some of us, and he was interrupted every other minute withapplause. I never felt so sorry for anybody. 

"Still, we were bent on seeing the thing through. After Sam's speech wasfinished, he ordered expensive wines--champagne and sparkling Moselle. Then we went out to do the town, and kept things going until morning todrown our sorrow. 

"Well, next day, of course, he started in to color the pipe. It wouldn'tcolor any more than a piece of chalk, which was about all it was. Samwould smoke and smoke, and complain that it didn't seem to taste right, and that it wouldn't color. Finally Denis said to him one day:

"'Oh, Sam, don't you know that's just a damned old egg-shell, and thatthe boys bought it for a dollar and a half and presented you with it fora joke?'

"Then Sam was furious, and we laid the whole thing on Dan de Quille. Hehad a thunder-cloud on his face when he started up for the Local Room, where Dan was. He went in and closed the door behind him, and locked it, and put the key in his pocket--an awful sign. Dan was there alone, writing at his table. 

"Sam said, 'Dan, did you know, when you invited me to make that speech, that those fellows were going to give me a bogus pipe?'

"There was no way for Dan to escape, and he confessed. Sam walked up anddown the floor, as if trying to decide which way to slay Dan. Finally hesaid:

"'Oh, Dan, to think that you, my dearest friend, who knew how littlemoney I had, and how hard I would work to prepare a speech that wouldshow my gratitude to my friends, should be the traitor, the Judas, tobetray me with a kiss! Dan, I never want to look on your face again. Youknew I would spend every dollar I had on those pirates when I couldn'tafford to spend anything; and yet you let me do it; you aided and abettedtheir diabolical plan, and you even got me to get up that damned speechto make the thing still more ridiculous. '

"Of course Dan felt terribly, and tried to defend himself by saying thatthey were really going to present him with a fine pipe--a genuine one, this time. But Sam at first refused to be comforted; and when, a fewdays later, I went in with the pipe and said, 'Sam, here's the pipe theboys meant to give you all the time, ' and tried to apologize, he lookedaround a little coldly, and said:

"'Is that another of those bogus old pipes?'

"He accepted it, though, and general peace was restored. One day, soonafter, he said to me:

"'Steve, do you know that I think that that bogus pipe smokes about aswell as the good one?'"

Many years later (this was in his home at Hartford, and Joe Goodman waspresent) Mark Twain one day came upon the old imitation pipe. 

"Joe, " he said, "that was a cruel, cruel trick the boys played on me;but, for the feeling I had during the moment when they presented me withthat pipe and when Charlie Pope was making his speech and I was making myreply to it--for the memory of that feeling, now, that pipe is moreprecious to me than any pipe in the world!"

Eighteen hundred and sixty-three was flood-tide on the Comstock. Everymine was working full blast. Every mill was roaring and crunching, turning out streams of silver and gold. A little while ago an oldresident wrote:

 When I close my eyes I hear again the respirations of hoisting- engines and the roar of stamps; I can see the "camels" after midnight packing in salt; I can see again the jam of teams on C Street and hear the anathemas of the drivers--all the mighty work that went on in order to lure the treasures from the deep chambers of the great lode and to bring enlightenment to the desert. 

Those were lively times. In the midst of one of his letters home MarkTwain interrupts himself to say: "I have just heard five pistol-shotsdown the street--as such things are in my line, I will go and see aboutit, " and in a postscript added a few hours later:

 5 A. M. The pistol-shot did its work well. One man, a Jackson County Missourian, shot two of my friends (police officers) through the heart--both died within three minutes. The murderer's name is John Campbell. 

"Mark and I had our hands full, " says De Quille, "and no grass grew underour feet. " In answer to some stray criticism of their policy, theyprinted a sort of editorial manifesto:

 Our duty is to keep the universe thoroughly posted concerning murders and street fights, and balls, and theaters, and pack-trains, and churches, and lectures, and school-houses, and city military affairs, and highway robberies, and Bible societies, and hay-wagons, and the thousand other things which it is in the province of local reporters to keep track of and magnify into undue importance for the instruction of the readers of a great daily newspaper. 

It is easy to recognize Mark Twain's hand in that compendium of labor, which, in spite of its amusing apposition, was literally true, and sointended, probably with no special thought of humor in its construction. It may be said, as well here as anywhere, that it was not Mark Twain'shabit to strive for humor. He saw facts at curious angles and phrasedthem accordingly. In Virginia City he mingled with the turmoil of theComstock and set down what he saw and thought, in his native speech. TheComstock, ready to laugh, found delight in his expression and discovereda vast humor in his most earnest statements. 

On the other hand, there were times when the humor was intended andmissed its purpose. We have already recalled the instance of the"Petrified Man" hoax, which was taken seriously; but the "Empire CityMassacre" burlesque found an acceptance that even its author consideredserious for a time. It is remembered to-day in Virginia City as thechief incident of Mark Twain's Comstock career. 

This literary bomb really had two objects, one of which was to punish theSan Francisco Bulletin for its persistent attacks on Washoe interests;the other, though this was merely incidental, to direct an unpleasantattention to a certain Carson saloon, the Magnolia, which was supposed todispense whisky of the "forty rod" brand--that is, a liquor warranted tokill at that range. It was the Bulletin that was to be made especially. Ridiculous. This paper had been particularly disagreeable concerning the"dividend-cooking" system of certain of the Comstock mines, at the sametime calling invidious attention to safer investments in Californiastocks. Samuel Clemens, with "half a trunkful" of Comstock shares, hadcultivated a distaste for California things in general: In a letter ofthat time he says:

"How I hate everything that looks or tastes or smells like California!"With his customary fickleness of soul, he was glorifying California lessthan a year later, but for the moment he could see no good in thatNazareth. To his great satisfaction, one of the leading Californiacorporations, the Spring Valley Water Company, "cooked" a dividend of itsown about this time, resulting in disaster to a number of guilelessinvestors who were on the wrong side of the subsequent crash. Thisafforded an inviting opportunity for reprisal. With Goodman's consent heplanned for the California papers, and the Bulletin in particular, apunishment which he determined to make sufficiently severe. He believedthe papers of that State had forgotten his earlier offenses, and theresult would show he was not mistaken. 

There was a point on the Carson River, four miles from Carson City, knownas "Dutch Nick's, " and also as Empire City, the two being identical. There was no forest there of any sort nothing but sage-brush. In the onecabin there lived a bachelor with no household. Everybody in Virginiaand Carson, of course, knew these things. 

Mark Twain now prepared a most lurid and graphic account of how onePhillip Hopkins, living "just at the edge of the great pine forest whichlies between Empire City and 'Dutch Nick's', " had suddenly gone insaneand murderously assaulted his entire family consisting of his wife andtheir nine children, ranging in ages from one to nineteen years. Thewife had been slain outright, also seven of the children; the other twomight recover. The murder had been committed in the most brutal andghastly fashion, after which Hopkins had scalped his wife, leaped on ahorse, cut his own throat from ear to ear, and ridden four miles intoCarson City, dropping dead at last in front of the Magnolia saloon, thered-haired scalp of his wife still clutched in his gory hand. Thearticle further stated that the cause of Mr. Hopkins's insanity waspecuniary loss, he having withdrawn his savings from safe Comstockinvestments and, through the advice of a relative, one of the editors ofthe San Francisco Bulletin, invested them in the Spring Valley WaterCompany. This absurd tale with startling head-lines appeared in theEnterprise, in its issue of October 28, 1863. 

It was not expected that any one in Virginia City or Carson City wouldfor a moment take any stock in the wild invention, yet so graphic was itthat nine out of ten on first reading never stopped to consider theentire impossibility of the locality and circumstance. Even when thesethings were pointed out many readers at first refused to confessthemselves sold. As for the Bulletin and other California papers, theywere taken-in completely, and were furious. Many of them wrote anddemanded the immediate discharge of its author, announcing that theywould never copy another line from the Enterprise, or exchange with it, or have further relations with a paper that had Mark Twain on its staff. Citizens were mad, too, and cut off their subscriptions. The joker wasin despair. 

"Oh, Joe, " he said, "I have ruined your business, and the only reparationI can make is to resign. You can never recover from this blow while I amon the paper. "

"Nonsense, " replied Goodman. "We can furnish the people with news, butwe can't supply them with sense. Only time can do that. The flurry willpass. You just go ahead. We'll win out in the long run. "

But the offender was in torture; he could not sleep. "Dan, Dan, " hesaid, "I am being burned alive on both sides of the mountains. "

"Mark, " said Dan. "It will all blow over. This item of yours will beremembered and talked about when the rest of your Enterprise work isforgotten. "

Both Goodman and De Quille were right. In a month papers and people hadforgotten their humiliation and laughed. "The Dutch Nick Massacre" gaveto its perpetrator and to the Enterprise an added vogue. 

--[For full text of the "Dutch Nick" hoax see Appendix C, at the end oflast volume: also, for an anecdote concerning a reporting excursion madeby Alf. Doten and Mark Twain. ]--

XLIIREPORTORIAL DAYS. 

Reference has already been made to the fashion among Virginia City papersof permitting reporters to use the editorial columns for ridicule of oneanother. This custom was especially in vogue during the period when Dande Quille and Mark Twain and The Unreliable were the shining journalisticlights of the Comstock. Scarcely a week went by that some apparentlyvenomous squib or fling or long burlesque assault did not appear eitherin the Union or the Enterprise, with one of those jokers as its authorand another as its target. In one of his "home" letters of that yearMark Twain says:

 I have just finished writing up my report for the morning paper and giving The Unreliable a column of advice about how to conduct himself in church. 

The advice was such as to call for a reprisal, but it apparently made nodifference in personal relations, for a few weeks later he is with TheUnreliable in San Francisco, seeing life in the metropolis, fairlyswimming in its delights, unable to resist reporting them to his mother. 

 We fag ourselves completely out every day and go to sleep without rocking every night. When I go down Montgomery Street shaking hands with Tom, Dick, and Harry, it is just like being on Main Street in Hannibal and meeting the old familiar faces. I do hate to go back to Washoe. We take trips across the bay to Oakland, and down to San Leandro and Alameda, and we go out to the Willows and Hayes Park and Fort Point, and up to Benicia; and yesterday we were invited out on a yachting excursion, and had a sail in the fastest yacht on the Pacific coast. Rice says: "Oh no--we are not having any fun, Mark --oh no--I reckon it's somebody else--it's probably the gentleman in the wagon" (popular slang phrase), and when I invite Rice to the Lick House to dinner the proprietor sends us champagne and claret, and then we do put on the most disgusting airs. The Unreliable says our caliber is too light--we can't stand it to be noticed. 

Three days later he adds that he is going sorrowfully "to the snows andthe deserts of Washoe, " but that he has "lived like a lord to make up fortwo years of privation. "

Twenty dollars is inclosed in each of these letters, probably as a bribeto Jane Clemens to be lenient with his prodigalities, which in hisyouthful love of display he could not bring himself to conceal. Butapparently the salve was futile, for in another letter, a month later, hecomplains that his mother is "slinging insinuations" at him again, suchas "where did you get that money" and "the company I kept in SanFrancisco. " He explains:

 Why, I sold Wild Cat mining ground that was given me, and my credit was always good at the bank for $2, 000 or $3, 000, and I never gamble in any shape or manner, and never drink anything stronger than claret and lager beer, which conduct is regarded as miraculously temperate in this place. As for company, I went in the very best company to be found in San Francisco. I always move in the best society in Virginia and have a reputation to preserve. 

He closes by assuring her that he will be more careful in future and thatshe need never fear but that he will keep her expenses paid. Then hecannot refrain from adding one more item of his lavish life:

"Put in my washing, and it costs me one hundred dollars a month to live. "

De Quille had not missed the opportunity of his comrade's absence topayoff some old scores. At the end of the editorial column of theEnterprise on the day following his departure he denounced the absent oneand his "protege, " The Unreliable, after the intemperate fashion of theday. 

 It is to be regretted that such scrubs are ever permitted to visit the bay, as the inevitable effect will be to destroy that exalted opinion of the manners and morality of our people which was inspired by the conduct of our senior editor--[which is to say, Dan himself]--. 

The diatribe closed with a really graceful poem, and the whole was nodoubt highly regarded by the Enterprise readers. 

What revenge Mark Twain took on his return has not been recorded, but itwas probably prompt and adequate; or he may have left it to TheUnreliable. It was clearly a mistake, however, to leave his own localwork in the hands of that properly named person a little later. Clemenswas laid up with a cold, and Rice assured him on his sacred honor that hewould attend faithfully to the Enterprise locals, along with his ownUnion items. He did this, but he had been nursing old injuries too long. What was Mark Twain's amazement on looking over the Enterprise nextmorning to find under the heading "Apologetic" a statement over his ownnom de plume, purporting to be an apology for all the sins of ridicule tothe various injured ones. 

 To Mayor Arick, Hon. Wm. Stewart, Marshal Perry, Hon. J. B. Winters, Mr. Olin, and Samuel Wetherill, besides a host of others whom we have ridiculed from behind the shelter of our reportorial position, we say to these gentlemen we acknowledge our faults, and, in all weakness and humility upon our bended marrow bones, we ask their forgiveness, promising that in future we will give them no cause for anything but the best of feeling toward us. To "Young Wilson" and The Unreliable (as we have wickedly termed them), we feel that no apology we can make begins to atone for the many insults we have given them. Toward these gentlemen we have been as mean as a man could be--and we have always prided ourselves on this base quality. We feel that we are the least of all humanity, as it were. We will now go in sack-cloth and ashes for the next forty days. 

This in his own paper over his own signature was a body blow; but it hadthe effect of curing his cold. He was back in the office forthwith, andin the next morning's issue denounced his betrayer. 

 We are to blame for giving The Unreliable an opportunity to misrepresent us, and therefore refrain from repining to any great extent at the result. We simply claim the right to deny the truth of every statement made by him in yesterday's paper, to annul all apologies he coined as coming from us, and to hold him up to public commiseration as a reptile endowed with no more intellect, no more cultivation, no more Christian principle than animates and adorns the sportive jackass-rabbit of the Sierras. We have done. 

These were the things that enlivened Comstock journalism. Once in aboxing bout Mark Twain got a blow on the nose which caused it to swell toan unusual size and shape. He went out of town for a few days, duringwhich De Quille published an extravagant account of his misfortune, describing the nose and dwelling on the absurdity of Mark Twain's eversupposing himself to be a boxer. 

De Quille scored heavily with this item but his own doom was written. Soon afterward he was out riding and was thrown from his horse andbruised considerably. 

This was Mark's opportunity. He gave an account of Dan's disaster; then, commenting, he said:

 The idea of a plebeian like Dan supposing he could ever ride a horse! He! why, even the cats and the chickens laughed when they saw him go by. Of course, he would be thrown off. Of course, any well-bred horse wouldn't let a common, underbred person like Dan stay on his back! When they gathered him up he was just a bag of scraps, but they put him together, and you'll find him at his old place in the Enterprise office next week, still laboring under the delusion that he's a newspaper man. 

The author of 'Roughing It' tells of a literary periodical called theOccidental, started in Virginia City by a Mr. F. This was thesilver-tongued Tom Fitch, of the Union, an able speaker and writer, vastly popular on the Coast. Fitch came to Clemens one day and said hewas thinking of starting such a periodical and asked him what he thoughtof the venture. Clemens said:

"You would succeed if any one could, but start a flower-garden on thedesert of Sahara; set up hoisting-works on Mount Vesuvius for miningsulphur; start a literary paper in Virginia City; h--l!"

Which was a correct estimate of the situation, and the paper perishedwith the third issue. It was of no consequence except that it containedwhat was probably the first attempt at that modern literary abortion, thecomposite novel. Also, it died too soon to publish Mark Twain's firstverses of any pretension, though still of modest merit--"The Aged PilotMan"--which were thereby saved for 'Roughing It. '

Visiting Virginia now, it seems curious that any of these things couldhave happened there. The Comstock has become little more than a memory;Virginia and Gold Hill are so quiet, so voiceless, as to constitutescarcely an echo of the past. The International Hotel, that once sosplendid edifice, through whose portals the tide of opulent life thenebbed and flowed, is all but deserted now. One may wander at willthrough its dingy corridors and among its faded fripperies, seeking invain for attendance or hospitality, the lavish welcome of a vanished day. Those things were not lacking once, and the stream of wealth tossed upand down the stair and billowed up C Street, an ebullient tide of metalsand men from which millionaires would be struck out, and individualsknown in national affairs. William M. Stewart who would one day become aUnited States Senator, was there, an unnoticed unit; and John Mackay andJames G. Fair, one a senator by and by, and both millionaires, but poorenough then--Fair with a pick on his shoulder and Mackay, too, at first, though he presently became a mine superintendent. Once in those daysMark Twain banteringly offered to trade businesses with Mackay. 

"No, " Mackay said, "I can't trade. My business is not worth as much asyours. I have never swindled anybody, and I don't intend to begin now. "

Neither of those men could dream that within ten years their names wouldbe international property; that in due course Nevada would proposestatues to their memory. 

Such things came out of the Comstock; such things spring out of everyturbulent frontier. 

XLIII

ARTEMUS WARD

Madame Caprell's warning concerning Mark Twain's health at twenty-eightwould seem to have been justified. High-strung and neurotic, the strainof newspaper work and the tumult of the Comstock had told on him. As inlater life, he was subject to bronchial colds, and more than once thatyear he found it necessary to drop all work and rest for a time atSteamboat Springs, a place near Virginia City, where there were boilingsprings and steaming fissures in the mountain-side, and a comfortablehotel. He contributed from there sketches somewhat more literary in formthan any of his previous work. "Curing a Cold" is a more or lessexaggerated account of his ills. 

 [Included in Sketches New and Old. "Information for the Million, " and "Advice to Good Little Girls, " included in the "Jumping Frog" Collection, 1867, but omitted from the Sketches, are also believed to belong to this period. ]

A portion of a playful letter to his mother, written from the springs, still exists. 

 You have given my vanity a deadly thrust. Behold, I am prone to boast of having the widest reputation as a local editor of any man on the Pacific coast, and you gravely come forward and tell me "if I work hard and attend closely to my business, I may aspire to a place on a big San Francisco daily some day. " There's a comment on human vanity for you! Why, blast it, I was under the impression that I could get such a situation as that any time I asked for it. But I don't want it. No paper in the United States can afford to pay me what my place on the Enterprise is worth. If I were not naturally a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing vagabond, I could make it pay me $20, 000 a year. But I don't suppose I shall ever be any account. I lead an easy life, though, and I don't care a cent whether school keeps or not. Everybody knows me, and I fare like a prince wherever I go, be it on this side of the mountain or the other. And I am proud to say I am the most conceited ass in the Territory. 

 You think that picture looks old? Well, I can't help it--in reality I'm not as old as I was when I was eighteen. 

Which was a true statement, so far as his general attitude was concerned. At eighteen, in New York and Philadelphia, his letters had been grave, reflective, advisory. Now they were mostly banter and froth, lightlyindifferent to the serious side of things, though perhaps onlypretendedly so, for the picture did look old. From the shock andcircumstance of his brother's death he--had never recovered. He wasbarely twenty-eight. From the picture he might have been a man of forty. 

It was that year that Artemus Ward (Charles F. Browne) came to VirginiaCity. There was a fine opera-house in Virginia, and any attraction thatbilled San Francisco did not fail to play to the Comstock. Ward intendedstaying only a few days to deliver his lectures, but the whirl of theComstock caught him like a maelstrom, and he remained three weeks. 

He made the Enterprise office his headquarters, and fairly reveled in thecompany he found there. He and Mark Twain became boon companions. Eachrecognized in the other a kindred spirit. With Goodman, De Quille, andMcCarthy, also E. E. Hingston--Ward's agent, a companionable fellow--theyusually dined at Chaumond's, Virginia's high-toned French restaurant. 

Those were three memorable weeks in Mark Twain's life. Artemus Ward wasin the height of his fame, and he encouraged his new-foundbrother-humorist and prophesied great things of him. Clemens, on hisside, measured himself by this man who had achieved fame, and perhapswith good reason concluded that Ward's estimate was correct, that he toocould win fame and honor, once he got a start. If he had lacked ambitionbefore Ward's visit, the latter's unqualified approval inspired him withthat priceless article of equipment. He put his soul into entertainingthe visitor during those three weeks; and it was apparent to theirassociates that he was at least Ward's equal in mental stature andoriginality. Goodman and the others began to realize that for Mark Twainthe rewards of the future were to be measured only by his resolution andability to hold out. On Christmas Eve Artemus lectured in Silver Cityand afterward came to the Enterprise office to give the boys a farewelldinner. The Enterprise always published a Christmas carol, and Goodmansat at his desk writing it. He was just finishing as Ward came in:

"Slave, slave, " said Artemus. "Come out and let me banish care fromyou. "

They got the boys and all went over to Chaumond's, where Ward commandedGoodman to order the dinner. When the cocktails came on, Artemus liftedhis glass and said:

"I give you Upper Canada. "

The company rose, drank the toast in serious silence; then Goodman said:

"Of course, Artemus, it's all right, but why did you give us UpperCanada?"

"Because I don't want it myself, " said Ward, gravely. 

Then began a rising tide of humor that could hardly be matched in theworld to-day. Mark Twain had awakened to a fuller power; Artemus Wardwas in his prime. They were giants of a race that became extinct whenMark Twain died. The youth, the wine, the whirl of lights and life, thetumult of the shouting street-it was as if an electric stream ofinspiration poured into those two human dynamos and sent them into adazzling, scintillating whirl. All gone--as evanescent, as forgotten, asthe lightnings of that vanished time; out of that vast feasting andentertainment only a trifling morsel remains. Ward now and then askedGoodman why he did not join in the banter. Goodman said:

"I'm preparing a joke, Artemus, but I'm keeping it for the present. "

It was near daybreak when Ward at last called for the bill. It was twohundred and thirty-seven dollars. 

"What"' exclaimed Artemus. 

"That's my joke. " said Goodman. 

"But I was only exclaiming because it was not twice as much, " returnedWard. 

He paid it amid laughter, and they went out into the early morning air. It was fresh and fine outside, not yet light enough to see clearly. Artemus threw his face up to the sky and said:

"I feel glorious. I feel like walking on the roofs. "

Virginia was built on the steep hillside, and the eaves of some of thehouses almost touched the ground behind them. 

"There is your chance, Artemus, " Goodman said, pointing to a row of thesehouses all about of a height. 

Artemus grabbed Mark Twain, and they stepped out upon the long string ofroofs and walked their full length, arm in arm. Presently the othersnoticed a lonely policeman cocking his revolver and getting ready to aimin their direction. Goodman called to him:

"Wait a minute. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to shoot those burglars, " he said. 

"Don't for your life. Those are not burglars. That's Mark Twain andArtemus Ward. "

The roof-walkers returned, and the party went down the street to a corneracross from the International Hotel. A saloon was there with a barrellying in front, used, perhaps for a sort of sign. Artemus climbedastride the barrel, and somebody brought a beer-glass and put it in hishand. Virginia City looks out over the Eastward Desert. Morning wasjust breaking upon the distant range-the scene as beautiful as when thesunrise beams across the plain of Memnon. The city was not yet awake. The only living creatures in sight were the group of belated diners, withArtemus Ward, as King Gambrinus, pouring a libation to the sunrise. 

That was the beginning of a week of glory. The farewell dinner became aseries. At the close of one convivial session Artemus went to aconcert-hall, the "Melodeon, " blacked his face, and delivered a speech. He got away from Virginia about the close of the year. 

A day or two later he wrote from Austin, Nevada, to his new-found comradeas "My dearest Love, " recalling the happiness of his stay:

"I shall always remember Virginia as a bright spot in my existence, asall others must or rather cannot be, as it were. "

Then reflectively he adds:

"Some of the finest intellects in the world have been blunted by liquor. "

Rare Artemus Ward and rare Mark Twain! If there lies somewhere a placeof meeting and remembrance, they have not failed to recall there thoseclosing days of '63. 

XLIV

GOVERNOR OF THE "THIRD HOUSE"

With Artemus Ward's encouragement, Clemens began to think of extendinghis audience eastward. The New York Sunday Mercury published literarymatter. Ward had urged him to try this market, and promised to write aspecial letter to the editors, introducing Mark Twain and his work. Clemens prepared a sketch of the Comstock variety, scarcely refined incharacter and full of personal allusion, a humor not suited to thepresent-day reader. Its general subject was children; it contained someabsurd remedies, supposedly sent to his old pilot friend Zeb Leavenworth, and was written as much for a joke on that good-natured soul as forprofit or reputation. 

"I wrote it especially for Beck Jolly's use, " the author declares, in aletter to his mother, "so he could pester Zeb with it. "

We cannot know to-day whether Zeb was pestered or not. A faded clippingis all that remains of the incident. As literature the article, properlyenough, is lost to the world at large. It is only worth remembering ashis metropolitan beginning. Yet he must have thought rather highly of it(his estimation of his own work was always unsafe), for in the letterabove quoted he adds:

 I cannot write regularly for the Mercury, of course, I sha'n't have time. But sometimes I throw off a pearl (there is no self-conceit about that, I beg you to observe) which ought for the eternal welfare of my race to have a more extensive circulation than is afforded by a local daily paper. 

 And if Fitzhugh Ludlow (author of the 'Hasheesh Eater') comes your way, treat him well. He published a high encomium upon Mark Twain (the same being eminently just and truthful, I beseech you to believe) in a San Francisco paper. Artemus Ward said that when my gorgeous talents were publicly acknowledged by such high authority I ought to appreciate them myself, leave sage-brush obscurity, and journey to New York with him, as he wanted me to do. But I preferred not to burst upon the New York public too suddenly and brilliantly, so I concluded to remain here. 

He was in Carson City when this was written, preparing for the opening ofthe next legislature. He was beyond question now the most conspicuousfigure of the capital; also the most wholesomely respected, for hisinfluence had become very large. It was said that he could control morevotes than any legislative member, and with his friends, Simmons andClagget, could pass or defeat any bill offered. The Enterprise was apowerful organ--to be courted and dreaded--and Mark Twain had become itschief tribune. That he was fearless, merciless, and incorruptible, without doubt had a salutary influence on that legislative session. Hereveled in his power; but it is not recorded that he ever abused it. Hegot a bill passed, largely increasing Orion's official fees, but this wasa crying need and was so recognized. He made no secret promises, none atall that he did not intend to fulfill. "Sam's word was as fixed asfate, " Orion records, and it may be added that he was morally asfearless. 

The two Houses of the last territorial legislature of Nevada assembledJanuary 12, 1864. --[Nevada became a State October 31, 1864. ]--A few dayslater a "Third House" was organized--an institution quite in keeping withthe happy atmosphere of that day and locality, for it was a burlesqueorganization, and Mark Twain was selected as its "Governor. "

The new House prepared to make a public occasion of this first session, and its Governor was required to furnish a message. Then it was decidedto make it a church benefit. The letters exchanged concerning thisproposition still exist; they explain themselves:

 CARSON CITY, January 23, 1864. 

 GOV. MARK TWAIN, Understanding from certain members of the Third House of the territorial Legislature that that body will have effected a permanent organization within a day or two, and be ready for the reception of your Third Annual Message, --[ There had been no former message. This was regarded as a great joke. ]--we desire to ask your permission, and that of the Third House, to turn the affair to the benefit of the Church by charging toll-roads, franchises, and other persons a dollar apiece for the privilege of listening to your communication. S. PIXLEY, G. A. SEARS, Trustees. 

 CARSON CITY, January 23, 1864. 

 GENTLEMEN, --Certainly. If the public can find anything in a grave state paper worth paying a dollar for, I am willing they should pay that amount, or any other; and although I am not a very dusty Christian myself, I take an absorbing interest in religious affairs, and would willingly inflict my annual message upon the Church itself if it might derive benefit thereby. You can charge what you please; I promise the public no amusement, but I do promise a reasonable amount of instruction. I am responsible to the Third House only, and I hope to be permitted to make it exceedingly warm for that body, without caring whether the sympathies of the public and the Church be enlisted in their favor, and against myself, or not. Respectfully, MARK TWAIN. 

Mark Twain's reply is closely related to his later style in phrase andthought. It might have been written by him at almost any subsequentperiod. Perhaps his association with Artemus Ward had awakened a newperception of the humorous idea--a humor of repression, ofunderstatement. He forgot this often enough, then and afterward, andgave his riotous fancy free rein; but on the whole the simpler, lessflorid form seemingly began to attract him more and more. 

His address as Governor of the Third House has not been preserved, butthose who attended always afterward referred to it as the "greatesteffort of his life. " Perhaps for that audience and that time thisverdict was justified. 

It was his first great public opportunity. On the stage about him satthe membership of the Third House; the building itself was packed, theaisles full. He knew he could let himself go in burlesque and satire, and he did. He was unsparing in his ridicule of the Governor, theofficials in general, the legislative members, and of individualcitizens. From the beginning to the end of his address the audience wasin a storm of laughter and applause. With the exception of the dinnerspeech made to the printers in Keokuk, it was his first public utterance--the beginning of a lifelong series of triumphs. 

Only one thing marred his success. Little Carrie Pixley, daughter of oneof the "trustees, " had promised to be present and sit in a box next thestage. It was like him to be fond of the child, and he had promised tosend a carriage for her. Often during his address he glanced toward thebox; but it remained empty. When the affair was ended, he drove homewith her father to inquire the reason. They found the little girl, inall her finery, weeping on the bed. Then he remembered he had forgottento send the carriage; and that was like him, too. 

For his Third House address Judge A. W. (Sandy) Baldwin and TheodoreWinters presented him with a gold watch inscribed to "Governor MarkTwain. " He was more in demand now than ever; no social occasion wasregarded as complete without him. His doings were related daily and hissayings repeated on the streets. Most of these things have passed awaynow, but a few are still recalled with smiles. Once, when conundrumswere being asked at a party, he was urged to make one. 

"Well, " he sand, "why am I like the Pacific Ocean?"

Several guesses were made, but none satisfied him. Finally all gave itup. 

"Tell us, Mark, why are you like the Pacific Ocean?"

"I don't know, " he drawled. "I was just asking for information. "

At another time, when a young man insisted on singing a song of eternallength, the chorus of which was, "I'm going home, I'm going home, I'mgoing home tomorrow, " Mark Twain put his head in the window and said, pleadingly:

"For God's sake go to-night. "

But he was also fond of quieter society. Sometimes, after the turmoil ofa legislative morning, he would drop in to Miss Keziah Clapp's school andlisten to the exercises, or would call on Colonel Curry--"old Curry, oldAbe Curry"--and if the colonel happened to be away, he would talk withMrs. Curry, a motherly soul (still alive at ninety-three, in 1910), andtell her of his Hannibal boyhood or his river and his mining adventures, and keep her laughing until the tears ran. 

He was a great pedestrian in those days. Sometimes he walked fromVirginia to Carson, stopping at Colonel Curry's as he came in for restand refreshment. 

"Mrs. Curry, " he said once, "I have seen tireder men than I am, andlazier men, but they were dead men. " He liked the home feeling there--the peace and motherly interest. Deep down, he was lonely andhomesick; he was always so away from his own kindred. 

Clemens returned now to Virginia City, and, like all other men who evermet her, became briefly fascinated by the charms of Adah Isaacs Menken, who was playing Mazeppa at the Virginia Opera House. All men--kings, poets, priests, prize-fighters--fell under Menken's spell. Dan de Quilleand Mark Twain entered into a daily contest as to who could lavish themost fervid praise on her in the Enterprise. The latter carried her hisliterary work to criticize. He confesses this in one of his homeletters, perhaps with a sort of pride. 

I took it over to show to Miss Menken the actress, Orpheus C. Ken's wife. She is a literary cuss herself. 

She has a beautiful white hand, but her handwriting is infamous; shewrites fast and her chirography is of the door-plate order--her lettersare immense. I gave her a conundrum, thus:

"My dear madam, why ought your hand to retain its present grace andbeauty always? Because you fool away devilish little of it on yourmanuscript. "

But Menken was gone presently, and when he saw her again, somewhat later, in San Francisco, his "madness" would have seemed to have been allayed. 

XLV

A COMSTOCK DUEL

The success--such as it was--of his occasional contributions to the NewYork Sunday Mercury stirred Mark Twain's ambition for a wider field oflabor. Circumstance, always ready to meet his wishes, offeredassistance, though in an unexpected form. 

Goodman, temporarily absent, had left Clemens in editorial charge. As inthat earlier day, when Orion had visited Tennessee and returned to findhis paper in a hot personal warfare with certain injured citizens, so theEnterprise, under the same management, had stirred up trouble. It wasjust at the time of the "Flour Sack Sanitary Fund, " the story of which isrelated at length in 'Roughing It'. In the general hilarity of thisoccasion, certain Enterprise paragraphs of criticism or ridicule hadincurred the displeasure of various individuals whose cause naturallyenough had been espoused by a rival paper, the Chronicle. Very soon theoriginal grievance, whatever it was, was lost sight of in the fireworksand vitriol-throwing of personal recrimination between Mark Twain and theChronicle editor, then a Mr. Laird. 

A point had been reached at length when only a call for bloodshed--achallenge--could satisfy either the staff or the readers of the twopapers. Men were killed every week for milder things than the editorshad spoken each of the other. Joe Goodman himself, not so long before, had fought a duel with a Union editor--Tom Fitch--and shot him in theleg, so making of him a friend, and a lame man, for life. In Joe'sabsence the prestige of the paper must be maintained. 

Mark Twain himself has told in burlesque the story of his duel, keepingsomewhat nearer to the fact than was his custom in such writing, as maybe seen by comparing it with the account of his abettor and second--ofcourse, Steve Gillis. The account is from Mr. Gillis's own hand:

 When Joe went away, he left Sam in editorial charge of the paper. That was a dangerous thing to do. Nobody could ever tell what Sam was going to write. Something he said stirred up Mr. Laird, of the Chronicle, who wrote a reply of a very severe kind. He said some things that we told Mark could only be wiped out with blood. Those were the days when almost every man in Virginia City had fought with pistols either impromptu or premeditated duels. I had been in several, but then mine didn't count. Most of them were of the impromptu kind. Mark hadn't had any yet, and we thought it about time that his baptism took place. 

 He was not eager for it; he was averse to violence, but we finally prevailed upon him to send Laird a challenge, and when Laird did not send a reply at once we insisted on Mark sending him another challenge, by which time he had made himself believe that he really wanted to fight, as much as we wanted him to do. Laird concluded to fight, at last. I helped Mark get up some of the letters, and a man who would not fight after such letters did not belong in Virginia City--in those days. 

 Laird's acceptance of Mark's challenge came along about midnight, I think, after the papers had gone to press. The meeting was to take place next morning at sunrise. 

 Of course I was selected as Mark's second, and at daybreak I had him up and out for some lessons in pistol practice before meeting Laird. I didn't have to wake him. He had not been asleep. We had been talking since midnight over the duel that was coming. I had been telling him of the different duels in which I had taken part, either as principal or second, and how many men I had helped to kill and bury, and how it was a good plan to make a will, even if one had not much to leave. It always looked well, I told him, and seemed to be a proper thing to do before going into a duel. So Mark made a will with a sort of gloomy satisfaction, and as soon as it was light enough to see, we went out to a little ravine near the meeting- place, and I set up a board for him to shoot at. He would step out, raise that big pistol, and when I would count three he would shut his eyes and pull the trigger. Of course he didn't hit anything; he did not come anywhere near hitting anything. Just then we heard somebody shooting over in the next ravine. Sam said:

 "What's that, Steve?"

 "Why, " I said, "that's Laud. His seconds are practising him over there. "

 It didn't make my principal any more cheerful to hear that pistol go off every few seconds over there. Just then I saw a little mud-hen light on some sage-brush about thirty yards away. 

 "Mark, " I said, "let me have that pistol. I'll show you how to shoot. "

 He handed it to me, and I let go at the bird and shot its head off, clean. About that time Laird and his second came over the ridge to meet us. I saw them coming and handed Mark back the pistol. We were looking at the bird when they came up. 

 "Who did that?" asked Laird's second. 

 "Sam, " I said. 

 "How far off was it?"

 "Oh, about thirty yards. "

 "Can he do it again?"

 "Of course, " I said; "every time. He could do it twice that far. "

 Laud's second turned to his principal. 

 "Laird, " he said, "you don't want to fight that man. It's just like suicide. You'd better settle this thing, now. "

 So there was a settlement. Laird took back all he had said; Mark said he really had nothing against Laird--the discussion had been purely journalistic and did not need to be settled in blood. He said that both he and Laird were probably the victims of their friends. I remember one of the things Laird said when his second told him he had better not fight. 

 "Fight! H--l, no! I am not going to be murdered by that d--d desperado. "

 Sam had sent another challenge to a man named Cutler, who had been somehow mixed up with the muss and had written Sam an insulting letter; but Cutler was out of town at the time, and before he got back we had received word from Jerry Driscoll, foreman of the Grand jury, that the law just passed, making a duel a penitentiary offense for both principal and second, was to be strictly enforced, and unless we got out of town in a limited number of hours we would be the first examples to test the new law. 

We concluded to go, and when the stage left next morning for SanFrancisco we were on the outside seat. Joe Goodman had returned by thistime and agreed to accompany us as far as Henness Pass. We were all ingood spirits and glad we were alive, so Joe did not stop when he got toHenness Pass, but kept on. Now and then he would say, "Well, I hadbetter be going back pretty soon, " but he didn't go, and in the end hedid not go back at all, but went with us clear to San Francisco, and wehad a royal good time all the way. I never knew any series of duels toclose so happily. 

So ended Mark Twain's career on the Comstock. He had come to it a wearypilgrim, discouraged and unknown; he was leaving it with a new name andfame--elate, triumphant, even if a fugitive. 

XLVI

GETTING SETTLED IN SAN FRANCISCO

This was near the end of May, 1864. The intention of both Gillis andClemens was to return to the States; but once in San Francisco bothpresently accepted places, Clemens as reporter and Gillis as compositor, on the 'Morning Call'. 

From 'Roughing It' the reader gathers that Mark Twain now entered into alife of butterfly idleness on the strength of prospective riches to bederived from the "half a trunkful of mining stocks, " and that presently, when the mining bubble exploded, he was a pauper. But a good manyliberties have been taken with the history of this period. Undoubtedlyhe expected opulent returns from his mining stocks, and was disappointed, particularly in an investment in Hale and Norcross shares, held too longfor the large profit which could have been made by selling at the propertime. 

The fact is, he spent not more than a few days--a fortnight at most--in"butterfly idleness, " at the Lick House before he was hard at work on the'Call', living modestly with Steve Gillis in the quietest place theycould find, never quiet enough, but as far as possible from dogs and catsand chickens and pianos, which seemed determined to make the morningshideous, when a weary night reporter and compositor wanted to rest. Theywent out socially, on occasion, arrayed in considerable elegance; buttheir recreations were more likely to consist of private midnight orgies, after the paper had gone to press--mild dissipations in whatever theycould find to eat at that hour, with a few glasses of beer, and perhaps agame of billiards or pool in some all-night resort. A printer by thename of Ward--"Little Ward, "--[L. P. Ward; well known as an athlete inSan Francisco. He lost his mind and fatally shot himself in 1903. ]--they called him--often went with them for these refreshments. Ward andGillis were both bantam game-cocks, and sometimes would stir up troublefor the very joy of combat. Clemens never cared for that sort of thingand discouraged it, but Ward and Gillis were for war. "They neverassisted each other. If one had offered to assist the other against someovergrown person, it would have been an affront, and a battle would havefollowed between that pair of little friends. "--[S. L. C. , 1906. ]--SteveGillis in particular, was fond of incidental encounters, a characteristicwhich would prove an important factor somewhat later in shaping MarkTwain's career. Of course, the more strenuous nights were not frequent. Their home-going was usually tame enough and they were glad enough to getthere. 

Clemens, however, was never quite ready for sleep. Then, as ever, hewould prop himself up in bed, light his pipe, and lose himself in Englishor French history until sleep conquered. His room-mate did not approveof this habit; it interfered with his own rest, and with his fiendishtendency to mischief he found reprisal in his own fashion. Knowing hiscompanion's highly organized nervous system he devised means of torturewhich would induce him to put out the light. Once he tied a nail to astring; an arrangement which he kept on the floor behind the bed. Pretending to be asleep, he would hold the end of the string, and lift itgently up and down, making a slight ticking sound on the floor, maddeningto a nervous man. Clemens would listen a moment and say:

"What in the nation is that noise"

Gillis's pretended sleep and the ticking would continue. 

Clemens would sit up in bed, fling aside his book, and swear violently. 

"Steve, what is that d--d noise?" he would say. 

Steve would pretend to rouse sleepily. 

"What's the matter, Sam? What noise? Oh, I guess that is one of thosedeath-ticks; they don't like the light. Maybe it will stop in a minute. "

It usually did stop about that time, and the reading would be apt tocontinue. But no sooner was there stillness than it began again--tick, tick, tick. With a wild explosion of blasphemy, the book would go acrossthe floor and the light would disappear. Sometimes, when he couldn'tsleep, he would dress and walk out in the street for an hour, while thecruel Steve slept like the criminal that he was. 

At last, one night, he overdid the thing and was caught. His torturedroom-mate at first reviled him, then threatened to kill him, finally puthim to shame. It was curious, but they always loved each other, thosetwo; there was never anything resembling an estrangement, and to his lastdays Mark Twain never could speak of Steve Gillis without tenderness. 

They moved a great many times in San Francisco. Their most satisfactoryresidence was on a bluff on California Street. Their windows looked downon a lot of Chinese houses--"tin-can houses, " they were called--smallwooden shanties covered with beaten-out cans. Steve and Mark would lookdown on these houses, waiting until all the Chinamen were inside; thenone of them would grab an empty beer-bottle, throw it down on those tincan roofs, and dodge behind the blinds. The Chinamen would swarm out andlook up at the row of houses on the edge of the bluff, shake their fists, and pour out Chinese vituperation. By and by, when they had retired andeverything was quiet again, their tormentors would throw another bottle. This was their Sunday amusement. 

At a place on Minna Street they lived with a private family. At firstClemens was delighted. 

"Just look at it, Steve, " he said. "What a nice, quiet place. Not athing to disturb us. "

But next morning a dog began to howl. Gillis woke this time, to find hisroom-mate standing in the door that opened out into a back garden, holding a big revolver, his hand shaking with cold and excitement. 

"Came here, Steve, " he said. "Come here and kill him. I'm so chilledthrough I can't get a bead on him. "

"Sam, " said Steve, "don't shoot him. Just swear at him. You can easilykill him at that range with your profanity. "

Steve Gillis declares that Mark Twain then let go such a scorching, singeing blast that the brute's owner sold him next day for a Mexicanhairless dog. 

We gather that they moved, on an average, about once a month. A homeletter of September 25, 1864, says:

 We have been here only four months, yet we have changed our lodging five times. We are very comfortably fixed where we are now and have no fault to find with the rooms or the people. We are the only lodgers-in a well-to-do private family . . . . But I need change and must move again. 

This was the Minna Street place--the place of the dog. In the sameletter he mentions having made a new arrangement with the Call, by whichhe is to receive twenty-five dollars a week, with no more night-work; hesays further that he has closed with the Californian for weekly articlesat twelve dollars each. 

XLVII

BOHEMIAN DAYS

Mark Twain's position on the 'Call' was uncongenial from the start. SanFrancisco was a larger city than Virginia; the work there was necessarilymore impersonal, more a routine of news-gathering and drudgery. He onceset down his own memories of it:

 At nine in the morning I had to be at the police court for an hour and make a brief history of the squabbles of the night before. They were usually between Irishmen and Irishmen, and Chinamen and Chinamen, with now and then a squabble between the two races, for a change. 

 During the rest of the day we raked the town from end to end, gathering such material as we might, wherewith to fill our required columns; and if there were no fires to report, we started some. At night we visited the six theaters, one after the other, seven nights in the week. We remained in each of those places five minutes, got the merest passing glimpse of play and opera, and with that for a text we "wrote up" those plays and operas, as the phrase goes, torturing our souls every night in the effort to find something to say about those performances which we had not said a couple of hundred times before. 

 It was fearful drudgery-soulless drudgery--and almost destitute of interest. It was an awful slavery for a lazy man. 

On the Enterprise he had been free, with a liberty that amounted tolicense. He could write what he wished, and was personally responsibleto the readers. On the Call he was simply a part of a news-machine;restricted by a policy, the whole a part of a still greater machine--politics. Once he saw some butchers set their dogs on an unoffendingChinaman, a policeman looking on with amused interest. He wrote anindignant article criticizing the city government and raking the police. In Virginia City this would have been a welcome delight; in San Franciscoit did not appear. 

At another time he found a policeman asleep on his beat. Going to anear-by vegetable stall he borrowed a large cabbage-leaf, came back andstood over the sleeper, gently fanning him. It would be wasted effort tomake an item of this incident; but he could publish it in his ownfashion. He stood there fanning the sleeping official until a largecrowd collected. When he thought it was large enough he went away. Nextday the joke was all over the city. 

Only one of the several severe articles he wrote criticizing officialsand institutions seems to have appeared--an attack on an undertaker whoseestablishment formed a branch of the coroner's office. The management ofthis place one day refused information to a Call reporter, and the nextmorning its proprietor was terrified by a scathing denunciation of hisfirm. It began, "Those body-snatchers" and continued through half acolumn of such scorching strictures as only Mark Twain could devise. TheCall's policy of suppression evidently did not include criticisms ofdeputy coroners. 

Such liberty, however, was too rare for Mark Twain, and he lost interest. He confessed afterward that he became indifferent and lazy, and thatGeorge E. Barnes, one of the publishers of the Call, at last allowed himan assistant. He selected from the counting-room a big, hulking youth bythe name of McGlooral, with the acquired prefix of "Smiggy. " Clemens hadtaken a fancy to Smiggy McGlooral--on account of his name and sizeperhaps--and Smiggy, devoted to his patron, worked like a slave gatheringnews nights--daytimes, too, if necessary--all of which was demoralizingto a man who had small appetite for his place anyway. It was only aquestion of time when Smiggy alone would be sufficient for the job. 

There were other and pleasanter things in San Francisco. The personaland literary associations were worth while. At his right hand in theCall office sat Frank Soule--a gentle spirit--a graceful versifier whobelieved himself a poet. Mark Twain deferred to Frank Soule in thosedays. He thought his verses exquisite in their workmanship; a word ofpraise from Soule gave him happiness. In a luxurious office up-stairswas another congenial spirit--a gifted, handsome fellow of twenty-four, who was secretary of the Mint, and who presently became editor of a newliterary weekly, the Californian, which Charles Henry Webb had founded. This young man's name was Francis Bret Harte, originally from Albany, later a miner and school-teacher on the Stanislaus, still later acompositor, finally a contributor, on the Golden Era. His fame scarcelyreached beyond San Francisco as yet; but among the little coterie ofwriting folk that clustered about the Era office his rank was high. MarkTwain fraternized with Bret Harte and the Era group generally. He feltthat he had reached the land--or at least the borderland--of Bohemia, that Ultima Thule of every young literary dream. 

San Francisco did, in fact, have a very definite literary atmosphere anda literature of its own. Its coterie of writers had drifted from hereand there, but they had merged themselves into a California body-poetic, quite as individual as that of Cambridge, even if less famous, lessfortunate in emoluments than the Boston group. Joseph E. Lawrence, familiarly known as "Joe" Lawrence, was editor of the Golden Era, --[TheGolden Era, California's first literary publication, was founded byRollin M. Daggett and J. McDonough Foard in 1852. ]--and his kindness andhospitality were accounted sufficient rewards even when his pecuniaryacknowledgments were modest enough. He had a handsome office, and theliterati, local and visiting, used to gather there. Names that would bewell known later were included in that little band. Joaquin Millerrecalls from an old diary, kept by him then, having seen Adah IsaacsMenken, Prentice Mulford, Bret Harte, Charles Warren Stoddard, FitzhughLudlow, Mark Twain, Orpheus C. Kerr, Artemus Ward, Gilbert Densmore, W. S. Kendall, and Mrs. Hitchcock assembled there at one time. The Eraoffice would seem to have been a sort of Mount Olympus, or Parnassus, perhaps; for these were mainly poets, who had scarcely yet attained tothe dignity of gods. Miller was hardly more than a youth then, and thisgrand assemblage impressed him, as did the imposing appointments of theplace. 

 The Era rooms were elegant--[he says]--the most grandly carpeted and most gorgeously furnished that I have ever seen. Even now in my memory they seem to have been simply palatial. I have seen the world well since then--all of its splendors worth seeing--yet those carpeted parlors, with Joe Lawrence and his brilliant satellites, outshine all things else, as I turn to look back. 

More than any other city west of the Alleghanies, San Francisco hasalways been a literary center; and certainly that was a remarkable groupto be out there under the sunset, dropped down there behind the Sierras, which the transcontinental railway would not climb yet, for severalyears. They were a happy-hearted, aspiring lot, and they got as much asfive dollars sometimes for an Era article, and were as proud of it as ifit had been a great deal more. They felt that they were creatingliterature, as they were, in fact; a new school of American lettersmustered there. 

Mark Twain and Bret Harte were distinctive features of this group. Theywere already recognized by their associates as belonging in a class bythemselves, though as yet neither had done any of the work for which hewould be remembered later. They were a good deal together, and it waswhen Harte was made editor of the Californian that Mark Twain was put onthe weekly staff at the then unexampled twelve-dollar rate. TheCalifornian made larger pretensions than the Era, and perhaps had aheavier financial backing. With Mark Twain on the staff and Bret Hartein the chair, himself a frequent contributor, it easily ranked as firstof San Francisco periodicals. A number of the sketches collected by Webblater, in Mark Twain's first little volume, the Celebrated Jumping Frog, Etc. , appeared in the Era or Californian in 1864 and 1865. They weresmart, bright, direct, not always refined, but probably the best humor ofthe day. Some of them are still preserved in this volume of sketches. They are interesting in what they promise, rather than in what theypresent, though some of them are still delightful enough. "The Killingof Julius Caesar Localized" is an excellent forerunner of his burlesquereport of a gladiatorial combat in The Innocents Abroad. The Answers toCorrespondents, with his vigorous admonition of the statistical moralist, could hardly have been better done at any later period. The Jumping Frogitself was not originally of this harvest. It has a history of its own, as we shall see a little further along. 

The reportorial arrangement was of brief duration. Even the great SanFrancisco earthquake of that day did not awaken in Mark Twain anypermanent enthusiasm for the drudgery of the 'Call'. He had lostinterest, and when Mark Twain lost interest in a subject or anundertaking that subject or that undertaking were better dead, so far ashe was concerned. His conclusion of service with the Call was certain, and he wondered daily why it was delayed so long. The connection hadbecome equally unsatisfactory to proprietor and employee. They had aheart-to-heart talk presently, with the result that Mark Twain was free. He used to claim, in after-years, with his usual tendency to confess theworst of himself, that he was discharged, and the incident has beenvariously told. George Barnes himself has declared that Clemens resignedwith great willingness. It is very likely that the paragraph at the endof Chapter LVIII in 'Roughing It' presents the situation with fairaccuracy, though, as always, the author makes it as unpleasant forhimself as possible:

"At last one of the proprietors took me aside, with a charity I stillremember with considerable respect, and gave me an opportunity to resignmy berth, and so save myself the disgrace of a dismissal. "

As an extreme contrast with the supposititious "butterfly idleness" ofhis beginning in San Francisco, and for no other discoverable reason, hedoubtless thought it necessary, in the next chapter of that book, todepict himself as having reached the depths of hard luck, debt, andpoverty. 

"I became an adept at slinking, " he says. "I slunk from back street toback street. .. . I slunk to my bed. I had pawned everything but theclothes I had on. "

This is pure fiction. That he occasionally found himself short of fundsis likely enough--a literary life invites that sort of thing--but that heever clung to a single "silver ten-cent piece, " as he tells us, andbecame the familiar of mendicancy, was a condition supplied altogether byhis later imagination to satisfy what he must have regarded as anartistic need. Almost immediately following his separation from the'Call' he arranged with Goodman to write a daily letter for theEnterprise, reporting San Francisco matters after his own notion with afree hand. His payment for this work was thirty dollars a week, and hehad an additional return from his literary sketches. The arrangement wasan improvement both as to labor and income. 

Real affluence appeared on the horizon just then, in the form of aliberal offer for the Tennessee land. But alas! it was from awine-grower who wished to turn the tract into great vineyards, and Orionhad a prohibition seizure at the moment, so the trade was not made. Orion further argued that the prospective purchaser would necessarily beobliged to import horticultural labor from Europe, and that those peoplemight be homesick, badly treated, and consequently unhappy in those fareastern Tennessee mountains. Such was Orion's way. 

XLVIII

THE REFUGE OF THE HILLS

Those who remember Mark Twain's Enterprise letters (they are no longerobtainable)--[Many of these are indeed now obtainable by a simple Websearch. D. W. ]--declare them to have been the greatest series of dailyphilippics ever written. However this may be, it is certain that theymade a stir. Goodman permitted him to say absolutely what he pleasedupon any subject. San Francisco was fairly weltering in corruption, official and private. He assailed whatever came first to hand with allthe fierceness of a flaming indignation long restrained. 

Quite naturally he attacked the police, and with such ferocity andpenetration that as soon as copies of the Enterprise came from Virginiathe City Hall began to boil and smoke and threaten trouble. Martin G. Burke, then chief of police, entered libel suit against the Enterprise, prodigiously advertising that paper, copies of which were snatched assoon as the stage brought them. 

Mark Twain really let himself go then. He wrote a letter that on theoutside was marked, "Be sure and let Joe see this before it goes in. " Heeven doubted himself whether Goodman would dare to print it, afterreading. It was a letter describing the city's corrupt morals under theexisting police government. It began, "The air is full of lechery, andrumors of lechery, " and continued in a strain which made even theEnterprise printers aghast. 

"You can never afford to publish that, " the foreman said to, Goodman. 

"Let it all go in, every word, " Goodman answered. "If Mark can stand it, I can!"

It seemed unfortunate (at the time) that Steve Gillis should select thisparticular moment to stir up trouble that would involve both himself andClemens with the very officials which the latter had undertaken topunish. Passing a saloon one night alone, Gillis heard an altercationgoing on inside, and very naturally stepped in to enjoy it. Includingthe barkeeper, there were three against two. Steve ranged himself on theweaker side, and selected the barkeeper, a big bruiser, who, when thefight was over, was ready for the hospital. It turned out that he wasone of Chief Burke's minions, and Gillis was presently indicted on acharge of assault with intent to kill. He knew some of the officials ina friendly way, and was advised to give a straw bond and go intotemporary retirement. Clemens, of course, went his bail, and Steve setout for Virginia City, until the storm blew over. 

This was Burke's opportunity. When the case was called and Gillis didnot appear, Burke promptly instituted an action against his bondsman, with an execution against his loose property. The watch that had beengiven him as Governor of the Third House came near being thus sacrificedin the cause of friendship, and was only saved by skilful manipulation. 

Now, it was down in the chain of circumstances that Steve Gillis'sbrother, James N. Gillis, a gentle-hearted hermit, a pocket-miner of thehalcyon Tuolumne district--the Truthful James of Bret Harte--happened tobe in San Francisco at this time, and invited Clemens to return with himto the far seclusion of his cabin on Jackass Hill. In that peacefulretreat were always rest and refreshment for the wayfarer, and more thanone weary writer besides Bret Harte had found shelter there. JamesGillis himself had fine literary instincts, but he remained apocket-miner because he loved that quiet pursuit of gold, the Arcadianlife, the companionship of his books, the occasional Bohemian pilgrim whofound refuge in his retreat. It is said that the sick were made well, and the well made better, in Jim Gillis's cabin on the hilltop, where theair was nectar and the stillness like enchantment. One could mine thereif he wished to do so; Jim would always furnish him a promising claim, and teach him the art of following the little fan-like drift of goldspecks to the nested deposit of nuggets somewhere up the hillside. Heregularly shared his cabin with one Dick Stoker (Dick Baker, of 'RoughingIt'), another genial soul who long ago had retired from the world to thisforgotten land, also with Dick's cat, Tom Quartz; but there was alwaysroom for guests. 

In 'Roughing It', and in a later story, "The Californian's Tale, " MarkTwain has made us acquainted with the verdant solitude of the Tuolumnehills, that dreamy, delicious paradise where once a vast population hadgathered when placer-mining had been in its bloom, a dozen years before. The human swarm had scattered when the washings failed to pay, leavingonly a quiet emptiness and the few pocket-miners along the Stanislaus andamong the hills. Vast areas of that section present a strange appearanceto-day. Long stretches there are, crowded and jammed and drifted withghostly white stones that stand up like fossils of a prehistoric life--the earth deposit which once covered them entirely washed away, everyparticle of it removed by the greedy hordes, leaving only this vastbleaching drift, literally the "picked bones of the land. " At one placestands Columbia, regarded once as a rival to Sacramento, a possible Statecapital--a few tumbling shanties now--and a ruined church. 

It was the 4th of December, 1864, when Mark Twain arrived at Jim Gillis'scabin. He found it a humble habitation made of logs and slabs, partlysheltered by a great live-oak tree, surrounded by a stretch of grass. Ithad not much in the way of pretentious furniture, but there was a largefireplace, and a library which included the standard authors. A youngerGillis boy, William, was there at this time, so that the family numberedfive in all, including Tom Quartz, the cat. On rainy days they wouldgather about the big, open fire and Jim Gillis, with his back to thewarmth, would relate diverting yarns, creations of his own, turned outhot from the anvil, forged as he went along. He had a startlingimagination, and he had fostered it in that secluded place. His storiesusually consisted of wonderful adventures of his companion, Dick Stoker, portrayed with humor and that serene and vagrant fancy which builds as itgoes, careless as to whither it is proceeding and whether the story shallend well or ill, soon or late, if ever. He always pretended that theseextravagant tales of Stoker were strictly true; and Stoker--"forty-sixand gray as a rat"--earnest, thoughtful, and tranquilly serene, wouldsmoke and look into the fire and listen to those astonishing things ofhimself, smiling a little now and then but saying never a word. What didit matter to him? He had no world outside of the cabin and the hills, noaffairs; he would live and die there; his affairs all had ended long ago. A number of the stories used in Mark Twain's books were first told by JimGillis, standing with his hands crossed behind him, back to the fire, inthe cabin on jackass Hill. The story of Dick Baker's cat was one ofthese; the jaybird and Acorn story of 'A Tramp Abroad' was another; alsothe story of the "Burning Shame, " and there are others. Mark Twain hadlittle to add to these stories; in fact, he never could get them to soundas well, he said, as when Jim Gillis had told them. 

James Gillis's imagination sometimes led him into difficulties. Once afeeble old squaw came along selling some fruit that looked like greenplums. Stoker, who knew the fruit well enough, carelessly ventured theremark that it might be all right, but he had never heard of anybodyeating it, which set Gillis off into eloquent praises of its delights, all of which he knew to be purely imaginary; whereupon Stoker told him ifhe liked the fruit so well, to buy some of it. There was no escape afterthat; Jim had to buy some of those plums, whose acid was of thehair-lifting aqua-fortis variety, and all the rest of the day he stewedthem, adding sugar, trying to make them palatable, tasting them now andthen, boasting meanwhile of their nectar-like deliciousness. He gave theothers a taste by and by--a withering, corroding sup--and they deridedhim and rode him down. But Jim never weakened. He ate that fearfulbrew, and though for days his mouth was like fire he still referred tothe luscious health-giving joys of the "Californian plums. "

Jackass Hill was not altogether a solitude; here and there wereneighbors. Another pocket-miner; named Carrington, had a cabin not faraway, and a mile or two distant lived an old couple with a pair of prettydaughters, so plump and trim and innocent, that they were called the"Chapparal Quails. " Young men from far and near paid court to them, andon Sunday afternoons so many horses would be tied to their front fence asto suggest an afternoon service there. Young "Billy" Gillis knew them, and one Sunday morning took his brother's friend, Sam Clemens, over for acall. They went early, with forethought, and promptly took the girls fora walk. They took a long walk, and went wandering over the hills, towardSandy Bar and the Stanislaus--through that reposeful land which BretHarte would one day light with idyllic romance--and toward evening foundthemselves a long way from home. They must return by the nearest way toarrive before dark. One of the young ladies suggested a short cutthrough the Chemisal, and they started. But they were lost, presently, and it was late, very late, when at last they reached the ranch. Themother of the "Quails" was sitting up for them, and she had something tosay. She let go a perfect storm of general denunciation, then narrowedthe attack to Samuel Clemens as the oldest of the party. He remainedmildly serene. 

"It wasn't my fault, " he ventured at last; "it was Billy Gillis's fault. "

"No such thing. You know better. Mr. Gillis has been here often. Itwas you. "

"But do you realize, ma'am, how tired and hungry we are? Haven't you gota bite for us to eat?"

"No, sir, not a bite--for such as you. "

The offender's eyes, wandering about the room, spied something in acorner. 

"Isn't that a guitar over there?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir, it is; what of it?"

The culprit walked over, and taking it up, tuned the strings a little andstruck the chords. Then he began to sing. He began very softly and sang"Fly Away, Pretty Moth, " then "Araby's Daughter. " He could sing verywell in those days, following with the simpler chords. Perhaps themother "Quail" had known those songs herself back in the States, for hermanner grew kindlier, almost with the first notes. When he had finishedshe was the first to ask him to go on. 

"I suppose you are just like all young folks, " she said. "I was youngmyself once. While you sing I'll get some supper. "

She left the door to the kitchen open so that she could hear, and cookedwhatever she could find for the belated party. 

XLIX

THE JUMPING FROG

It was the rainy season, the winter of 1864 and 1865, but there were manypleasant days, when they could go pocket-hunting, and Samuel Clemens soonadded a knowledge of this fascinating science to his other acquirements. Sometimes he worked with Dick Stoker, sometimes with one of the Gillisboys. He did not make his fortune at pocket-mining; he only laid itscorner-stone. In the old note-book he kept of that sojourn we find that, with Jim Gillis, he made a trip over into Calaveras County soon afterChristmas and remained there until after New Year's, probablyprospecting; and he records that on New Year's night, at Vallecito, hesaw a magnificent lunar rainbow in a very light, drizzling rain. A lunaxrainbow is one of the things people seldom see. He thought it an omen ofgood-fortune. 

They returned to the cabin on the hill; but later in the month, on thethey crossed over into Calaveras again, and began pocket-hunting not farfrom Angel's Camp. The note-book records that the bill of fare at theCamp hotel consisted wholly of beans and something which bore the name ofcoffee; also that the rains were frequent and heavy. 

 January 27. Same old diet--same old weather--went out to the pocket-claim--had to rush back. 

They had what they believed to be a good claim. Jim Gillis declared theindications promising, and if they could only have good weather to workit, they were sure of rich returns. For himself, he would have beenwilling to work, rain or shine. Clemens, however, had different views onthe subject. His part was carrying water for washing out the pans ofdirt, and carrying pails of water through the cold rain and mud was notvery fascinating work. Dick Stoker came over before long to help. Thingswent a little better then; but most of their days were spent in thebar-room of the dilapidated tavern at Angel's Camp, enjoying the companyof a former Illinois River pilot, Ben Coon, --[This name has beenvariously given as "Ros Coon, " "Coon Drayton, " etc. It is given here asset down in Mark Twain's notes, made on the spot. Coon was not (as hasbeen stated) the proprietor of the hotel (which was kept by a Frenchman), but a frequenter of it. ]--a solemn, fat-witted person, who dozed by thestove, or old slow, endless stories, without point or application. Listeners were a boon to him, for few came and not many would stay. ToMark Twain and Jim Gillis, however, Ben Coon was a delight. It wassoothing and comfortable to listen to his endless narratives, told inthat solemn way, with no suspicion of humor. Even when his yarns hadpoint, he did not recognize it. One dreary afternoon, in his slow, monotonous fashion, he told them about a frog--a frog that had belongedto a man named Coleman, who trained it to jump, but that failed to win awager because the owner of a rival frog had surreptitiously loaded thetrained jumper with shot. The story had circulated among the camps, anda well-known journalist, named Samuel Seabough, had already made a squibof it, but neither Clemens nor Gillis had ever happened to hear itbefore. They thought the tale in itself amusing, and the "spectacle of aman drifting serenely along through such a queer yarn without eversmiling was exquisitely absurd. " When Coon had talked himself out, hishearers played billiards on the frowsy table, and now and then one wouldremark to the other:

"I don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any otherfrog, " and perhaps the other would answer:

"I ain't got no frog, but if I had a frog I'd bet you. "

Out on the claim, between pails of water, Clemens, as he watched JimGillis or Dick Stoker "washing, " would be apt to say, "I don't see nop'ints about that pan o' dirt that's any better'n any other pan o' dirt, "and so they kept it up. 

Then the rain would come again and interfere with their work. Oneafternoon, when Clemens and Gillis were following certain tiny-sprayedspecks of gold that were leading them to pocket--somewhere up the longslope, the chill downpour set in. Gillis, as usual, was washing, andClemens carrying water. The "color" was getting better with every pan, and Jim Gillis believed that now, after their long waiting, they were tobe rewarded. Possessed with the miner's passion, he would have gone onwashing and climbing toward the precious pocket, regardless ofeverything. Clemens, however, shivering and disgusted, swore that eachpail of water was his last. His teeth were chattering and he was wetthrough. Finally he said, in his deliberate way:

"Jim, I won't carry any more water. This work is too disagreeable. "

Gillis had just taken out a panful of dirt. 

"Bring one more pail, Sam, " he pleaded. 

"Oh, hell, Jim, I won't do it; I'm freezing!"

"Just one more pail, Sam, " he pleaded. 

"No, sir, not a drop, not if I knew there were a million dollars in thatpan. "

Gillis tore a page out of his note-book, and hastily posted a thirty-dayclaim notice by the pan of dirt, and they set out for Angel's Camp. Itkept on raining and storming, and they did not go back. A few days latera letter from Steve Gillis made Clemens decide to return to SanFrancisco. With Jim Gillis and Dick Stoker he left Angel's and walkedacross the mountains to Jackass Hill in the snow-storm--"the first I eversaw in California, " he says in his notes. 

In the mean time the rain had washed away the top of the pan of earththey had left standing on the hillside, and exposed a handful ofnuggets-pure gold. Two strangers, Austrians, had come along and, observing it, had sat down to wait until the thirty-day claim noticeposted by Jim Gillis should expire. They did not mind the rain--not withall that gold in sight--and the minute the thirty days were up theyfollowed the lead a few pans farther and took out--some say ten, some saytwenty, thousand dollars. In either case it was a good pocket. MarkTwain missed it by one pail of water. Still, it is just as well, perhaps, when one remembers that vaster nugget of Angel's Camp--theJumping Frog. Jim Gillis always declared, "If Sam had got that pocket hewould have remained a pocket-miner to the end of his days, like me. "

In Mark Twain's old note-book occurs a memorandum of the frog story--amere casual entry of its main features:

 Coleman with his jumping frog--bet stranger $50--stranger had no frog, and C. Got him one:--in the mean time stranger filled C. 's frog full of shot and he couldn't jump. The stranger's frog won. 

It seemed unimportant enough, no doubt, at the time; but it was thenucleus around which was built a surpassing fame. The hills along theStanislaus have turned out some wonderful nuggets in their time, but noother of such size as that. 

L

BACK TO THE TUMULT

FROM the note-book:

 February 25. Arrived in Stockton 5 p. M. Home again home again at the Occidental Hotel, San Francisco--find letters from Artemus Ward asking me to write a sketch for his new book of Nevada Territory Travels which is soon to come out. Too late--ought to have got the letters three months ago. They are dated early in November. 

He was sorry not to oblige Ward, sorry also not to have representation inhis book. He wrote explaining the circumstance, and telling the story ofhis absence. Steve Gillis, meantime, had returned to San Francisco, andsettled his difficulties there. The friends again took up residencetogether. 

Mark Twain resumed his daily letters to the Enterprise, without furtherannoyance from official sources. Perhaps there was a temporary truce inthat direction, though he continued to attack various abuses--civic, private, and artistic--becoming a sort of general censor, establishingfor himself the title of the "Moralist of the Main. " The letters werereprinted in San Francisco and widely read. Now and then some one hadthe temerity to answer them, but most of his victims maintained adiscreet silence. In one of these letters he told of the Mexican oyster, a rather tough, unsatisfactory article of diet, which could not standcriticism, and presently disappeared from the market. It was a mistake, however, for him to attack an Alta journalist by the name of Evans. Evanswas a poet, and once composed an elegy with a refrain which ended:

 Gone, gone, gone --Gone to his endeavor; Gone, gone, gone, Forever and forever. 

In the Enterprise letter following its publication Mark Twain referred tothis poem. He parodied the refrain and added, "If there is any criticismto make on it I should say there is a little too much 'gone' and notenough 'forever. '"

It was a more or less pointless witticism, but it had a humorous quotableflavor, and it made Evans mad. In a squib in the Alta he retaliated:

 Mark Twain has killed the Mexican oyster. We only regret that the act was not inspired by a worthier motive. Mark Twain's sole reason for attacking the Mexican oyster was because the restaurant that sold them refused him credit. 

A deadly thrust like that could not be parried in print. To deny orrecriminate would be to appear ridiculous. One could only sweat andbreathe vengeance. 

"Joe, " he said to Goodman, who had come over for a visit, "my one objectin life now is to make enough money to stand trial and then go and murderEvans. "

He wrote verses himself sometimes, and lightened his Enterprise letterswith jingles. One of these concerned Tom Maguire, the autocrat managerof San Francisco theaters. It details Maguire's assault on one of hisactors. 

 Tom Maguire, Roused to ire, Lighted on McDougal; Tore his coat, Clutched his throat, And split him in the bugle. 

 For shame! oh, fie! Maguire, why Will you thus skyugle? Why curse and swear, And rip and tear The innocent McDougal?

 Of bones bereft, Almost, you've left Vestvali, gentle Jew gal; And now you've smashed And almost hashed The form of poor McDougall

Goodman remembers that Clemens and Gillis were together again onCalifornia Street at this time, and of hearing them sing, "The DolefulBallad of the Rejected Lover, " another of Mark Twain's compositions. Itwas a wild, blasphemous outburst, and the furious fervor with which Markand Steve delivered it, standing side by side and waving their fists, didnot render it less objectionable. Such memories as these are set downhere, for they exhibit a phase of that robust personality, built of thesame primeval material from which the world was created--built of everyvariety of material, in fact, ever incorporated in a human being--equallycapable of writing unprintable coarseness and that rarest and most tenderof all characterizations, the 'Recollections of JOAN of ARC'. 

LI

THE CORNER-STONE

Along with his Enterprise work, Clemens continued to write occasionallyfor the Californian, but for some reason he did not offer the story ofthe jumping frog. For one thing, he did not regard it highly as literarymaterial. He knew that he had enjoyed it himself, but the humor andfashion of its telling seemed to him of too simple and mild a variety inthat day of boisterous incident and exaggerated form. By and by ArtemusWard turned up in San Francisco, and one night Mark Twain told him hisexperiences with Jim Gillis, and in Angel's Camp; also of Ben Coon andhis tale of the Calaveras frog. Ward was delighted. 

"Write it, " he said. "There is still time to get it into my volume ofsketches. Send it to Carleton, my publisher in New York. "--[This is inaccordance with Mr. Clemens's recollection of the matter. The author canfind no positive evidence that Ward was on the Pacific coast again in1865. It seems likely, therefore, that the telling of the frog story andhis approval of it were accomplished by exchange of letters. ]--Clemenspromised to do this, but delayed fulfilment somewhat, and by the time thesketch reached Carleton, Ward's book was about ready for the press. Itdid not seem worth while to Carleton to make any change of plans thatwould include the frog story. The publisher handed it over to HenryClapp, editor of the Saturday Press, a perishing sheet, saying: "Here, Clapp, here's something you can use in your paper. " Clapp took itthankfully enough, we may believe. 

"Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog"--[This was the original title. ]--appeared in the Saturday Press of November 18, 1865, and wasimmediately copied and quoted far and near. It brought the name of MarkTwain across the mountains, bore it up and down the Atlantic coast, andout over the prairies of the Middle West. Away from the Pacific slopeonly a reader here and there had known the name before. Now every onewho took a newspaper was treated to the tale of the wonderful Calaverasfrog, and received a mental impress of the author's signature. The nameMark Twain became hardly an institution, as yet, but it made a strong bidfor national acceptance. 

As for its owner, he had no suspicion of these momentous happenings for aconsiderable time. The telegraph did not carry such news in those days, and it took a good while for the echo of his victory to travel to theCoast. When at last a lagging word of it did arrive, it would seem tohave brought disappointment, rather than exaltation, to the author. EvenArtemus Ward's opinion of the story had not increased Mark Twain's regardfor it as literature. That it had struck the popular note meant, as hebelieved, failure for his more highly regarded work. In a letter writtenJanuary 20, 1866, he says these things for himself:

 I do not know what to write; my life is so uneventful. I wish I was back there piloting up and down the river again. Verily, all is vanity and little worth--save piloting. 

 To think that, after writing many an article a man might be excused for thinking tolerably good, those New York people should single out a villainous backwoods sketch to compliment me on! "Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog"--a squib which would never have been written but to please Artemus Ward, and then it reached New York too late to appear in his book. 

 But no matter. His book was a wretchedly poor one, generally speaking, and it could be no credit to either of us to appear between its covers. 

This paragraph is from the New York correspondence of the San FranciscoAlta:

 "Mark Twain's story in the Saturday Press of November 18th, called 'Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog, ' has set all New York in a roar, and he may be said to have made his mark. I have been asked fifty times about it and its author, and the papers are copying it far and near. It is voted the best thing of the day. Cannot the 'Californian' afford to keep Mark all to itself? It should not let him scintillate so widely without first being filtered through the California press. "

 The New York publishing house of Carleton & Co. Gave the sketch to the Saturday Press when they found it was too late for the book. 

It is difficult to judge the jumping Frog story to-day. It has theintrinsic fundamental value of one of AEsop's Fables. --[The resemblanceof the frog story to the early Greek tales must have been noted by Prof. Henry Sidgwick, who synopsized it in Greek form and phrase for his book, Greek Prose Composition. Through this originated the impression that thestory was of Athenian root. Mark Twain himself was deceived, until in1899, when he met Professor Sidgwick, who explained that the Greekversion was the translation and Mark Twain's the original; that he hadthought it unnecessary to give credit for a story so well known. See TheJumping Frog, Harper & Bros. , 1903, p. 64. ]--It contains a basic ideawhich is essentially ludicrous, and the quaint simplicity of its tellingis convincing and full of charm. It appeared in print at a time whenAmerican humor was chaotic, the public taste unformed. We had a vastappreciation for what was comic, with no great number of opportunitiesfor showing it. We were so ready to laugh that when a real opportunitycame along we improved it and kept on laughing and repeating the cause ofour merriment, directing the attention of our friends to it. Whether thestory of "Jim Smiley's Frog, " offered for the first time today, wouldcapture the public, and become the initial block of a towering fame, isanother matter. That the author himself underrated it is certain. Thatthe public, receiving it at what we now term the psychological moment, may have overrated it is by no means impossible. In any case, it doesnot matter now. The stone rejected by the builder was made thecorner-stone of his literary edifice. As such it is immortal. 

In the letter already quoted, Clemens speaks of both Bret Harte andhimself as having quit the 'Californian' in future expecting to write forEastern papers. He adds:

 Though I am generally placed at the head of my breed of scribblers in this part of the country, the place properly belongs to Bret Harte, I think, though he denies it, along with the rest. He wants me to club a lot of old sketches together with a lot of his, and publish a book. I wouldn't do it, only he agrees to take all the trouble. But I want to know whether we are going to make anything out of it, first. However, he has written to a New York publisher, and if we are offered a bargain that will pay for a month's labor we will go to work and prepare the volume for the press. 

Nothing came of the proposed volume, or of other joint literary schemesthese two had then in mind. Neither of them would seem to have beenoptimistic as to their future place in American literature; certainly intheir most exalted moments they could hardly have dreamed that withinhalf a dozen years they would be the head and front of a new school ofletters--the two most talked-of men in America. 

LII

A COMMISSION TO THE SANDWICH ISLANDS

Whatever his first emotions concerning the success of "Jim Smiley's Frog"may have been, the sudden astonishing leap of that batrachian intoAmerican literature gave the author an added prestige at home as well asin distant parts. Those about him were inclined to regard him, in somedegree at least, as a national literary figure and to pay tributeaccordingly. Special honors began to be shown to him. A fine newsteamer, the Ajax, built for the Sandwich Island trade, carried on itsinitial trip a select party of guests of which he was invited to makeone. He did not go, and reproached himself sorrowfully afterward. 

If the Ajax were back I would go quick, and throw up my correspondence. She had fifty-two invited guests aboard--the cream of the town--gentlemenand ladies, and a splendid brass band. I could not accept because therewould be no one to write my correspondence while I was gone. 

In fact, the daily letter had grown monotonous. He was restless, and theAjax excursion, which he had been obliged to forego, made him still moredissatisfied. An idea occurred to him: the sugar industry of the islandswas a matter of great commercial interest to California, while the lifeand scenery there, picturesquely treated, would appeal to the generalreader. He was on excellent terms with James Anthony and Paul Morrill, of the Sacramento Union; he proposed to them that they send him as theirspecial correspondent to report to their readers, in a series of letters, life, trade, agriculture, and general aspect of the islands. To his vastdelight, they gave him the commission. He wrote home joyously now:

I am to remain there a month and ransack the islands, the cataracts andvolcanoes completely, and write twenty or thirty letters, for which theypay as much money as I would get if I stayed at home. 

He adds that on his return he expects to start straight across thecontinent by way of the Columbia River, the Pend Oreille Lakes, throughMontana and down the Missouri River. "Only two hundred miles of landtravel from San Francisco to New Orleans. "

So it is: man proposes, while fate, undisturbed, spins serenely on. 

He sailed by the Ajax on her next trip, March 7 (1866), beginning hisfirst sea voyage--a brand-new experience, during which he acquired thenames of the sails and parts of the ship, with considerable knowledge ofnavigation, and of the islands he was to visit--whatever informationpassengers and sailors could furnish. It was a happy, stormy voyagealtogether. In 'Roughing It' he has given us some account of it. 

It was the 18th of March when he arrived at Honolulu, and his firstimpression of that tranquil harbor remained with him always. In fact, his whole visit there became one of those memory-pictures, full of goldensunlight and peace, to be found somewhere in every human past. 

The letters of introduction he had brought, and the reputation which hadpreceded him, guaranteed him welcome and hospitality. Officials andprivate citizens were alike ready to show him their pleasant land, and hefairly reveled in its delicious air, its summer warmth, its soft repose. 

 Oh, islands there are on the face of the deep Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep, he quotes in his note-book, and adds:

 Went with Mr. Damon to his cool, vine-shaded home; no careworn or eager, anxious faces in this land of happy contentment. God, what a contrast with California and the Washoe!

And in another place:

 They live in the S. I. --no rush, no worry--merchant goes down to his store like a gentleman at nine--goes home at four and thinks no more of business till next day. D--n San F. Style of wearing out life. 

He fitted in with the languorous island existence, but he had come forbusiness, and he lost not much time. He found there a number of friendsfrom Washoe, including the Rev. Mr. Rising, whose health had failed fromoverwork. By their direction, and under official guidance, he set out onOahu, one of the several curious horses he has immortalized in print, and, accompanied by a pleasant party of ladies and gentlemen, encircledthe island of that name, crossed it and recrossed it, visited its variousbattle-fields, returning to Honolulu, lame, sore, sunburnt, buttriumphant. His letters home, better even than his Union correspondence, reveal his personal interest and enthusiasms. 

 I have got a lot of human bones which I took from one of these battle-fields. I guess I will bring you some of them. I went with the American Minister and took dinner this evening with the King's Grand Chamberlain, who is related to the royal family, and though darker than a mulatto he has an excellent English education, and in manners is an accomplished gentleman. He is to call for me in the morning; we will visit the King in the palace, After dinner they called in the "singing girls, " and we had some beautiful music, sung in the native tongue. 

It was his first association with royalty, and it was human that heshould air it a little. In the same letter he states: "I will sail in aday or two on a tour of the other islands, to be gone two months. "

'In Roughing It' he has given us a picture of his visits to the islands, their plantations, their volcanoes, their natural and historic wonders. He was an insatiable sight-seer then, and a persevering one. The veryname of a new point of interest filled him with an eager enthusiasm to beoff. No discomfort or risk or distance discouraged him. With a singledaring companion--a man who said he could find the way--he crossed theburning floor of the mighty crater of Kilauea (then in almost constanteruption), racing across the burning lava floor, jumping wide andbottomless crevices, when a misstep would have meant death. 

By and by Marlette shouted "Stop!" I never stopped quicker in my life. Iasked what the matter was. He said we were out of the path. He said wemust not try to go on until we found it again, for we were surroundedwith beds of rotten lava, through which we could easily break and plungedown 1, 000 feet. I thought Boo would answer for me, and was about to sayso, when Marlette partly proved his statement, crushing through anddisappearing to his arm-pits. 

They made their way across at last, and stood the rest of the nightgazing down upon a spectacle of a crater in quivering action, a veritablelake of fire. They had risked their lives for that scene, but it seemedworth while. 

His open-air life on the river, and the mining camps, had prepared SamuelClemens for adventurous hardships. He was thirty years old, with hisfull account of mental and physical capital. His growth had been slow, but he was entering now upon his golden age; he was fitted for conquestof whatever sort, and he was beginning to realize his power. 

LIII

ANSON BURLINGAME AND THE "HORNET" DISASTER

It was near the end of June when he returned to Honolulu from a tour ofall the islands, fairly worn out and prostrated with saddle boils. Heexpected only to rest and be quiet for a season, but all unknown to himstartling and historic things were taking place in which he was to have apart--events that would mark another forward stride in his career. 

The Ajax had just come in, bringing his Excellency Anson Burlingame, thenreturning to his post as minister to China; also General Van Valkenburg, minister to Japan; Colonel Rumsey and Minister Burlingame's son, Edward, --[Edward L. Burlingame, now for many years editor of Scribner'sMagazine. ]--then a lively boy of eighteen. Young Burlingame had read"The Jumping Frog, " and was enthusiastic about Mark Twain and his work. Learning that he was in Honolulu, laid up at his hotel, the party sentword that they would call on him next morning. 

Clemens felt that he must not accept this honor, sick or well. Hecrawled out of bed, dressed and shaved himself as quickly as possible, and drove to the American minister's, where the party was staying. Theyhad a hilariously good time. When he returned to his hotel he sent them, by request, whatever he had on hand of his work. General Van Valkenburghad said to him:

"California is proud of Mark Twain, and some day the American people willbe, too, no doubt. "

There has seldom been a more accurate prophecy. 

But a still greater event was imminent. On that very day (June 21, 1866)there came word of the arrival at Sanpahoe, on the island of Hawaii, ofan open boat containing fifteen starving wretches, who on short, ten-dayrations had been buffeting a stormy sea for forty-three days! A vessel, the Hornet, from New York, had taken fire and burned "on the line, " andsince early in May, on that meager sustenance, they had been battlingwith hundreds of leagues of adverse billows, seeking for land. 

A few days following the first report, eleven of the rescued men werebrought to Honolulu and placed in the hospital. Mark Twain recognizedthe great news importance of the event. It would be a splendid beat ifhe could interview the castaways and be the first to get their story tohis paper. There was no cable in those days; a vessel for San Franciscowould sail next morning. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and hemust not miss it. Bedridden as he was, the undertaking seemed beyond hisstrength. 

But just at this time the Burlingame party descended on him, and almostbefore he knew it he was on the way to the hospital on a cot, escorted bythe heads of the joint legations of China and Japan. Once there, AnsonBurlingame, with his splendid human sympathy and handsome, courtlypresence, drew from those enfeebled castaways all the story of their longprivation and struggle, that had stretched across forty-three distempereddays and four thousand miles of sea. All that Mark Twain had to do wasto listen and make the notes. 

He put in the night-writing against time. Next morning, just as thevessel for the States was drifting away from her dock, a strong handflung his bulky envelope of manuscript aboard, and if the vessel arrivedhis great beat was sure. It did arrive, and the three-column story onthe front page of the Sacramento Union, in its issue of July 19th, gavethe public the first detailed history of the terrible Hornet disaster andthe rescue of those starving men. Such a story occupied a wider place inthe public interest than it would in these crowded days. The telegraphcarried it everywhere, and it was featured as a sensation. 

Mark Twain always adored the name and memory of Anson Burlingame. In hisletter home he tells of Burlingame's magnanimity in "throwing away aninvitation to dine with princes and foreign dignitaries" to help him. "You know I appreciate that kind of thing, " he says; which was a truestatement, and in future years he never missed an opportunity of payingan instalment on his debt of gratitude. It was proper that he should doso, for the obligation was a far greater one than that contracted inobtaining the tale of the Hornet disaster. It was the debt which oneowes to a man who, from the deep measure of his understanding, givesencouragement and exactly needed and convincing advice. Anson Burlingamesaid to Samuel Clemens:

"You have great ability; I believe you have genius. What you need now isthe refinement of association. Seek companionship among men of superiorintellect and character. Refine yourself and your work. Never affiliatewith inferiors; always climb. "

Clemens never forgot that advice. He did not always observe it, but herarely failed to realize its gospel. Burlingame urged him to travel. 

"Come to Pekin next winter, " he said, "and visit me. Make my house yourhome. I will give you letters and introduce you. You will havefacilities for acquiring information about China. "

It is not surprising then that Mark Twain never felt his debt to AnsonBurlingame entirely paid. Burlingame came more than once to the hotel, for Clemens was really ill now, and they discussed plans for his futurebetterment. 

He promised, of course, to visit China, and when he was alone put in agood deal of time planning a trip around the world which would includethe great capitals. When not otherwise employed he read; though therewas only one book in the hotel, a "blue and gold" edition of Dr. Holmes'sSongs in Many Keys, and this he soon knew almost by heart, fromtitle-page to finis. 

He was soon up and about. No one could remain ill long in those happyislands. Young Burlingame came, and suggested walks. Once, when Clemenshesitated, the young man said:

"But there is a Scriptural command for you to go. "

"If you can quote one I'll obey it, " said Clemens. 

"Very well. The Bible says, 'If any man require thee to walk a mile, gowith him, Twain. '"

The command was regarded as sufficient. Clemens quoted the witticismlater (in his first lecture), and it was often repeated in after-years, ascribed to Warner, Ward, and a dozen others. Its origin was as here setdown. 

Under date of July 4 (1866), Mark Twain's Sandwich Island note-book says:

 Went to a ball 8. 30 P. M. --danced till 12. 30; stopped at General Van Valkenburg's room and talked with him and Mr. Burlingame and Ed Burlingame until 3 A. M. 

From which we may conclude that he had altogether recovered. A few dayslater the legation party had sailed for China and Japan, and on the19th Clemens himself set out by a slow sailing-vessel to San Francisco. They were becalmed and were twenty-five days making the voyage. CaptainMitchell and others of the wrecked Hornet were aboard, and he put in agood deal of time copying their diaries and preparing a magazine articlewhich, he believed, would prove his real entrance to the literary world. 

The vessel lay almost perfectly still, day after day, and became aregular playground at sea. Sundays they had services and Mark Twain ledthe choir. 

"I hope they will have a better opinion of our music in heaven than Ihave down here, " he says in his notes. "If they don't, a thunderboltwill knock this vessel endways. " It is perhaps worthy of mention that onthe night of the 27th of July he records having seen another "splendidlycolored, lunar rainbow. " That he regarded this as an indication offuture good-fortune is not surprising, considering the events of theprevious year. 

It was August 13th when he reached San Francisco, and the note-book entryof that day says:

 Home again. No--not home again--in prison again, end all the wild sense of freedom gone. The city seems so cramped and so dreary with toil and care and business anxiety. God help me, I wish I were at sea again!

There were compensations, however. He went over to Sacramento, and wasabundantly welcomed. It was agreed that, in addition to the twentydollars allowed for each letter, a special bill should be made for theHornet report. 

"How much do you think it ought to be, Mark?" James Anthony asked. 

"Oh, I'm a modest man; I don't want the whole Union office. Call it $100a column. "

There was a general laugh. The bill was made out at that figure, and hetook it to the business office for payment. 

"The cashier didn't faint, " he wrote, many years later, "but he camerather near it. He sent for the proprietors, and they only laughed intheir jolly fashion, and said it was a robbery, but 'no matter, pay it. It's all right. ' The best men that ever owned a newspaper. "--["My Debutas a Literary Person. "--Collected works. ]--Though inferior to thedescriptive writing which a year later would give him a world-wide fame, the Sandwich Island letters added greatly to his prestige on the Pacificcoast. They were convincing, informing; tersely--eveneloquently--descriptive, with a vein of humor adapted to their audience. Yet to read them now, in the fine nonpareil type in which they were set, is such a wearying task that one can only marvel at their popularity. They were not brilliant literature, by our standards to-day. Their humoris usually of a muscular kind, varied with grotesque exaggerations; theliterary quality is pretty attenuated. Here and there are attempts atverse. He had a fashion in those days of combining two or more poemswith distracting, sometimes amusing, effect. Examples of thesedislocations occur in the Union letters; a single stanza will present thegeneral idea:

 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, The turf with their bayonets turning, And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold, And our lanterns dimly burning. 

Only a trifling portion of the letters found their way into his SandwichIsland chapters of 'Roughing It', five years later. They do, however, reveal a sort of transition stage between the riotous florescence of theComstock and the mellowness of his later style. He was learning to seethings with better eyes, from a better point of view. It is notdifficult to believe that this literary change of heart was in no smallmeasure due to the influence of Anson Burlingame.