August 18, 2025 • 26 mins
Delve into the intriguing life of Mark Twain through the eyes of Will Clemens, who, despite not being related to the famed author, became an acquaintance and penned what may be the first comprehensive biography of Twain. Published on July 1, 1892, as No. 1 in The Pacific Library, this 200-page work was available for just 25¢ and garnered enough attention to be republished in 1894 by a Chicago publisher. In this insightful sketch, Clemens draws heavily on previously published works by other authors, offering a unique perspective on Twains literary legacy. (summary by John Greenman)
Mark as Played
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
This is chapter five of Mark Twain, His Life and Work,
a biographical sketch by William M. Clemens. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain. Chapter five, his First literary Success,
read by John Greenman. During the following winter, Mark Twain
sojourned at the National Capital, working at odd moments upon
(00:23):
the initial chapter of his Innocence Abroad. His bohemian habits
were retained in every particular. At least the statement is
warranted by a friend who writes of Mark's life at
this time. His room was a perfect chaos, his table
a curiosity in its way. On it could be seen
(00:45):
anything from soiled manuscript to old boots. He never laid
his paper on the table when writing, partly because there
was no available space, and partly because of the position
so necessity was too much for his lazy bones. With
both feet plunged in manuscript chair tilted back, and notebook
(01:09):
and pencil in hand, he did all the writing I
ever saw him do. An ordinary atmosphere would not suffice
to set in motion the stream of Mark's ideas. It
must first be thoroughly saturated with the violest tobacco smoke,
which he puffed from a villainous pipe, said pipe, having
(01:31):
never received a cleaning, As many newspaper friends of those
days can testify, he regarded this pipe as his salvation
from boores, taking a ghastly delight in puffing away like
a locomotive when an undesirable visitor dropped in and eagerly
watching the paleness, which gradually crept over the face of
(01:52):
the enemy as the poisonous stuff got in its work.
One day, while Mark was busily engaged with his work
in his dingy little room, a tall, sallow faced man
with a miserable expression of countenance and a deep consumptive
cough entered the room and, without an invitation, sat down.
Turning to the visitor, Clemens said, well. The visitor said, well,
(02:19):
what can I do for you? Asked the humorist, Well,
nothing in particular. I heard him say that you are
the man that writes funny things, And as I have
several hours to loaf around before the train leaves, I
thought I would come around and get you to make
me laugh a little. I ain't had a good laugh
(02:43):
and many a day, and I didn't know, but what
h bout accommodate me? Clemens scowled at the man, who,
thinking that the humorist was presenting him with a specimen
of facial fun, began to titter. I'll do first rate, captain,
but i'd rather hear you talk. I can make a
(03:05):
mouth at a man about as easy as any fellow
you ever saw. And what I want is a few
words from you that'll joke me like a wagon that
had back to give me, my friend. I am very
busy today, and yes I know all that. I am
very busy myself, except that I've got about two hours
(03:28):
to loaf. And as I said just now, i'd like
for you to get off something that I can take home. Why,
I can go round and get the drinks on it
for a week. Won't you have a cigar? Asked Clemens,
desirous of learning whether the man was a smoker. No,
I never could stand a cigar. The humorous smiled, and,
(03:51):
taking up his pipe, filled it up with strong tobacco,
and began to puff. I'll keep him in here now,
mused the until he is as sick as a dog.
I wouldn't consent to his departure. If he was to
get down on his knees and pray for deliverance. Nothing
(04:13):
does a man more good A hearty laugh, the visitor said,
coughing as a cloud of smoke surrounded his head. Wow,
what don't you think it is a little close in here? Oh? No,
replied Mark, arising and locking the door. I like a
(04:34):
little fresh air, especially when there's so much smoke in
a room. Oh, there's air enough here. How did you
leave all the folks? Well, Gabe, my youngest, I ain't
as pert as he mote be, but all the others
are steering. He ain't got no chilling, I reckon, No,
(04:58):
the humorous replied, as he vigorously puffed his pipe. Well,
I'm sorry for you. There ain't nothing that adds to
a man's natural enjoyment like children. That boy, Gabe, what
I was talking about? Just now? Why I wouldn't give
him up for the finest yoke steers you've ever seen?
You wouldn't, No, Sir, wouldn't touch him. A ten foot
(05:20):
pole would refuse him? Pine blank, pardon, don't you? I
think it's getting a little too a cluster in here,
Now go not a bit just right. Well, I don't
know the style in this place, but I'll try and
put up with it. After a moment's silence, The visitor continued.
(05:41):
When I left home, h that's my wife, he said
to me, says she, Now say while you're there, don't
smoke that cob pipe. I wanted to follow her advice,
but I put my old fuzzy in my jeans. Now
I believe I'll take a smoke. He took out a
cob pipe and a twist of new tobacco, known in
(06:03):
his neighborhood as tough Sam, whittled off a handful, filled
his pipe, lighted it, placed his feet on the stove,
and went to work. Mark soon began to snuff the
foul air, but he was determined to stand it. The
visitor blew smoke like a tar kiln. Mark grew restless.
(06:24):
Beads of cold perspiration began to gather on his brow.
Throwing down his pipe, he hastily unlocked the door and
fled on the sidewalk. He met a friend, Hello, clemmens,
what's the matter, Twain related what had occurred? Oh you
mean that fellow in brown jeans. Yes, you ought to
(06:46):
have had a better sense than to light your pipe
in his presence. Why, Because he's a member of the
Arkansas legislature. William M. Stewart, United States senator from Nevada,
was in acquaintance of the humorist at this time and
some years since. While in a reminiscent, Mood related the following.
(07:07):
I knew Mark Twain in Washington at a time when
he was without money. He told me his condition and
said he was very anxious to get out his book.
He showed me his notes, and I saw that they
would make a great book and probably bring him in
a fortune. I promised that I would stake him until
(07:27):
he had the book written. I made him a clerk
to my committee in the Senate, which paid him six
dollars per day. Then I hired a man for one
hundred dollars per month to do the work. I then
had rooms on f Street in a house which was
kept by an ancient lady. She belonged to an old
Southern family whose property was lost during the War of
(07:48):
the Rebellion. I had three large rooms on the second floor,
and there was also a hall room. I was very
anxious that Sam should stick to his work until he fit,
as I was almost as much interested as he. I
took him to live with me and gave him the
hall room to sleep in. He did his work in
(08:10):
the room, which I had fixed up as a study.
He would work during the day, and in the evening
he would read me what he had written, after which
he would stroll out about the city for recreation. He
usually returned to his hall bedroom about midnight and would
sit up until early morning, reading, smoking, whistling, and singing.
(08:33):
His noise used to be a source of great annoyance
to the landlady. She was very nervous and unable to
sleep when any gas was burning in the house. She
regarded Sam as a very careless fellow, and I don't
think she liked him very well. She came to see
me one morning with her eyes swollen, her appearance altogether
betokening a very dilapidated condition. She said she had been
(08:56):
unable to sleep all night, and that in fact, for
a week she had been losing sleep. Sam was the
cause of all her trouble, and she told me how
he remained up all the night, burning gas and creating
a rumpus. I informed Sam of the landlady's complaint and
told him he ought to go to bed at a
reasonable hour and not frighten the old lady. Sam replied
(09:19):
that that was all the fun he had, but he
promised to mend his ways, and I thought no more
of the matter. In a week, the landlady came to
me again, and this time with tears in her eyes.
She said she knew she was receiving a very handsome
rent from me for the rooms, and that she also
was aware she could not rent them again during the season,
(09:40):
but she was compelled to ask me to give them
up on account of the way mister Clemmons was wearing
her life out. I felt truly sorry for the old lady.
I called Sam in and repeated to him what the
landlady had said. I told him I would thrash him
if I ever heard another complaint. I said. I did
not want to turn him out. I wanted him to
(10:01):
finish his book. He made one of his smart replies
at the expense of the landlady, and I told him
I would thrash him then and there he begged in
a most pitiful way for me not to do so,
and I could not help laughing, seeing that he had
gotten me into a good humor again. He said that
(10:21):
he would not annoy the old lady again, but that
he would certainly get even with me for having threatened
to thrash him if it took him ten years to
do so. During the winter spent in Washington, Mark wrote
many newspaper letters and a large number of short humorous articles.
These include facts in the Case of the Great Beef
(10:42):
Contract and the account of his resignation as Clerk of
the Senate Committee on Concology. He also wrote Riley newspaper Correspondent,
which attracted a vast amount of attention and was liberally quoted.
In March eighteen sixty eight, he sailed for San Francisco
for the purpose of arranging some trivial business matter on
(11:04):
the Pacific coast. He was absent about five months, returning
to New York about August. While in California and on
board the steamship en route, he completed the manuscript of
His Innocence Abroad, or The New Pilgrim's Progress. Meanwhile, the
San Francisco Alta had secured copyright upon mister Clemens's letters
(11:26):
from the Holy Land. General John MacComb, always the friend
of the struggling author, finally persuaded his partners in the
ALTA office to surrender the copyright, and Mark Twain became
the owner of the innocence abroad in New York. Upon
his return from San Francisco, he resumed his newspaper correspondence,
and in a letter to the Chicago Republican dated New
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York August seventeenth, eighteen sixty eight, he devoted three columns
to an account of his return voyage from California. He
carefully reviewed the matter of California immigration changes that had
taken place in San Francisco since his previous visit. He
described the Panama Canal and vividly portrayed life and character
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in Central America. Here's an amusing extract from his letter.
Possibly you know that they have a revolution in Central America.
Every time the moon changes, all you have to do
is to get out in the street in Panama or
(12:29):
aspen Wall and give a whoop, and the thing is done.
Shout down with the administration and up with somebody else,
and the revolution follows. Nine tenths of the people break
for home, slam the doors behind them, and get under
the bed. The other tenth go and overturn the government
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and banish the officials from president down to notary public.
Then for the next thirty day they inquire anxiously of
all commers wants sort of a stir their little shivalry
made in Europe and America. By that time, the next
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revolution is ready to be touched off, and out they go.
From this letter it appears that he had visited Hartford,
where in the Golden Future he was to take up
his permanent residence. In closing the letter to the Chicago Republican,
he wrote, I have been about ten days in Hartford,
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and shall return there before very long. I think it
must be the handsomest city in the Union. In summer.
It is the moneyed center of the state, and one
of its capitals. Also, for Connecticut is so law abiding
and so addicted to law, that there is not enough
room in one city to manufacture all of the articles.
(14:01):
Hartford is the place where the insurance companies all live.
They use some of the houses for dwellings, the others
are for insurance offices, so it is easy to see
that there is quite a spirit of speculative enterprise there.
Many of the inhabitants have retired from business, but the
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others labor along in the old customary way as presidents
of insurance companies. In eighteen sixty eight sixty nine, Clemens
was living at the Everett House in New York City.
Having completed his innocence abroad, he looked about for a publisher.
His visit to Hartford early in August was for the
purpose of conferring with a publisher there, but he had
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met with but little encouragement. He next tried a dozen
publishing houses in New York, but in vain. He sent
his manuscript to other publishers in Boston and Philadelphi with
like success. Somewhat disheartened, he laid the book away in
his room. One day he was entertaining the late Albert D.
(15:08):
Richardson in his apartment. In a self disgusted mood, he
handed Richardson his manuscript to see if his friend thought
it so irredeemably bad. Richardson read it, pronounced it very clever,
full of the extravagant drollery which the American people relish,
and expressed his astonishment that any publisher of intelligence and
(15:29):
experience should have declined it. You can't be any more
astonished than I am, remarked Clemons dryly. These publishers have
astonished as much conceit out of me as a long
siege of sea sickness. Richardson who had published several books
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through the American Publishing Company, said that he was going
to Hartford, that he would take the manuscript with him,
and that he was sure the company would be glad
to plish it. He kept his promise and placed the
manuscript in the hands of mister Bliss, then secretary of
the company, who was pleased with it. But some of
the other officers and directors were averse and made so
(16:12):
many objections that Bliss finally declared that he would publish
the volume on his own account. This caused some of
the others to yield, and Innocence Abroad was issued, but
under protest and many misgivings as to its financial success.
The result is well known. The book made Mark Twain famous.
(16:33):
The sale, including pirated editions, reached two hundred thousand copies.
The American Company cleared in the neighborhood of seventy five
thousand dollars. By the publication, Mark was crazed with joy.
He wrote to his old friend Captain Bixby of the
steamboat Paul Jones, thirty tons of paper have been used
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in publishing my book, Innocence Abroad. It has met with
a greater sale than any book ever published, except Uncle
Tom's Cabin. The volumes sell from three dollars to five
dollars according to Finish, and I get one half the
prophet Not so bad for a scrub pilot, is it?
(17:20):
How do you run plumb point? A son of a
gun of a place? I would rather be a pilot
than anything I ever tried. The London Saturday Review of
October eighth, eighteen sixty nine reviewed Innocence Abroad at great length,
along with other volumes, as a book of travel. The
review was written most seriously, and one could imagine the
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delight of the humorist in reading this tribute to his power.
In fact, the review so amused Mark Twain that he
himself wrote along burlesque on the Saturday Review criticism, in
which he said, to say that Innocence Abroad is a
curious book would be to use the faintest language, would
(18:03):
be to speak of the matterhorn as a neat elevation,
or of Niagara's being nice or pretty. Curious is too
tame a word wherewith to describe the imposing insanity of
this work, there is no word that is large enough
(18:24):
or long enough. Let us therefore photograph a passing glimpse
of book and author, and trust the rest to the reader.
Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture to himself.
This mark Twain as a person capable of doing the
(18:47):
following described things, and not only doing them, but with
incredible innocence printing them calmly andqually. In a book. For instance,
he states that he entered a hair dresser's in Paris
(19:08):
to get shaved, and the first rake the barber dave
with his razor. It loosened his hide and lifted him
out of the chair. This is unquestionably exaggerated. In Florence,
he was so annoyed by beggars that he pretends to
(19:30):
have seized and eaten one in a frantic spirit of revenge.
There is, of course no truth in this. He gives
at full length a theatrical program seventeen or eighteen hundred
years old, which he professes to have found in the
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ruins of the Colosseum, among the dirt and mold and rubbish.
It is a sufficient comment upon this statement to remark
that even a cast iron program would not have lasted
so long under the circumstances in Greece. He plainly betrays
(20:15):
both fright and flight upon one occasion, but with frozen
effrontery puts the latter in this falsely tame form. We
sidled towards the purious sidled. Indeed, he did not hesitate
to intimate that at Ephesus, when his mules strayed from
(20:36):
the proper course, he got down, took him under his arm,
carried him to the road, again, pointed him right, remounted,
and went to sleep contentedly till it was time to
restore the beast to the path. Once more, he states
that a growing youth among his ship's passengers was in
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the constant habit of appeasing his hunger with soap and
oakum between meals. In Palestine, he tells of ants that
came eleven miles to spend the summer in the desert,
and brought their provisions with them. Yet he shows by
his description of the country that the feat was an impossibility.
(21:24):
He mentions, as if it were the most commonplace matter,
that he cut a Moslem in two in broad daylight
in Jerusalem with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword, and would have
shed more blood if he had had a graveyard of
his own. These statements are unworthy a moment's attention, Mister
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Twain or any other foreigner who did such a thing
in Jerusalem would be mobbed and would infallibly lose his life.
But why go on, why repeat more of his adacious
and exasperating falsehoods? Let us close fittingly with this one.
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He affirms that in the Mosque of Saint Sophia at Constantinople,
I got my feet so stuck up with a complication
of gums, slime, and general impunity, that I wore out
more than two thousand pair of boot jacks getting my
(22:32):
boots off that night, and even then some Christian hide
peeled off with them. It is monstrous. Such statements are
simply lies. There is no other name for them. Will
the reader longer marvel at the brutal ignorance that pervades
(22:54):
the American nation? In another place, he commits the bald
absurdity of putting the phrase tarnouns into an Italian mouth.
In Rome, he unhesitatingly believes the legend that Saint Philip
Nery's heart was so inflamed with divine love that it
(23:17):
burst his ribs. Believes it wholly because an author with
a learned list of university degrees strung after his name
endorses it. Otherwise, says the gentle idiot, I should have
felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for dinner.
(23:40):
Our author makes a long, fatiguing journey to the Grotto
del Cane on purpose to test its poisoning powers on
a dog, got elaborately ready for the experiment, and then
discovered that he had no dog. A wiser person would
(24:02):
have kept such a thing discreetly to himself, But with
this harmless creature everything comes out. He hurts his foot
in a rut two thousand years old in exhumed POMPEII,
and presently, when staring at one of the cinder like
(24:23):
corpses unearthed in the next square, conceives the idea that
maybe it is the remains of the ancient street commissioner,
and straightway his horror softens down to a sort of
chirpy contentment with the condition of things. We have thus
(24:44):
spoken freely of this man's stupefying simplicity and innocence, but
we cannot deal similarly with his colossal ignorance. We do
not know where to begin, and if we knew where
to begin, we certainly should not know where to leave off.
(25:10):
We will give one specimen, and one only. He did
not know until he got to Rome that Michael Angelo
was dead. And then, instead of crawling away and hiding
his shameful ignorance somewhere, he proceeds to express his pious,
(25:32):
grateful sort of satisfaction that he is gone and out
of his troubles. No, the reader may seek out the
author's exhibitions of his uncultivation of himself. The book is
absolutely dangerous, considering the magnitude and variety of its misstatements,
(25:54):
and yet it is a textbook in the schools of America,
even in our own country. Innocence Abroad had its curious adventures.
In Pennsylvania, a rural clergyman sadly returned the volume to
the book agent with a remark that the man who
could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be
(26:18):
an idiot. End of chapter five, read by John Greenman.
This is chapter five of Mark Twain, His Life and Work,
a biographical sketch by William M. Clemens. This LibriVox recording
is in the public domain. Chapter five, his First literary Success,
read by John Greenman. During the following winter, Mark Twain
sojourned at the National Capital, working at odd moments upon
(00:23):
the initial chapter of his Innocence Abroad. His bohemian habits
were retained in every particular. At least the statement is
warranted by a friend who writes of Mark's life at
this time. His room was a perfect chaos, his table
a curiosity in its way. On it could be seen
(00:45):
anything from soiled manuscript to old boots. He never laid
his paper on the table when writing, partly because there
was no available space, and partly because of the position
so necessity was too much for his lazy bones. With
both feet plunged in manuscript chair tilted back, and notebook
(01:09):
and pencil in hand, he did all the writing I
ever saw him do. An ordinary atmosphere would not suffice
to set in motion the stream of Mark's ideas. It
must first be thoroughly saturated with the violest tobacco smoke,
which he puffed from a villainous pipe, said pipe, having
(01:31):
never received a cleaning, As many newspaper friends of those
days can testify, he regarded this pipe as his salvation
from boores, taking a ghastly delight in puffing away like
a locomotive when an undesirable visitor dropped in and eagerly
watching the paleness, which gradually crept over the face of
(01:52):
the enemy as the poisonous stuff got in its work.
One day, while Mark was busily engaged with his work
in his dingy little room, a tall, sallow faced man
with a miserable expression of countenance and a deep consumptive
cough entered the room and, without an invitation, sat down.
Turning to the visitor, Clemens said, well. The visitor said, well,
(02:19):
what can I do for you? Asked the humorist, Well,
nothing in particular. I heard him say that you are
the man that writes funny things, And as I have
several hours to loaf around before the train leaves, I
thought I would come around and get you to make
me laugh a little. I ain't had a good laugh
(02:43):
and many a day, and I didn't know, but what
h bout accommodate me? Clemens scowled at the man, who,
thinking that the humorist was presenting him with a specimen
of facial fun, began to titter. I'll do first rate, captain,
but i'd rather hear you talk. I can make a
(03:05):
mouth at a man about as easy as any fellow
you ever saw. And what I want is a few
words from you that'll joke me like a wagon that
had back to give me, my friend. I am very
busy today, and yes I know all that. I am
very busy myself, except that I've got about two hours
(03:28):
to loaf. And as I said just now, i'd like
for you to get off something that I can take home. Why,
I can go round and get the drinks on it
for a week. Won't you have a cigar? Asked Clemens,
desirous of learning whether the man was a smoker. No,
I never could stand a cigar. The humorous smiled, and,
(03:51):
taking up his pipe, filled it up with strong tobacco,
and began to puff. I'll keep him in here now,
mused the until he is as sick as a dog.
I wouldn't consent to his departure. If he was to
get down on his knees and pray for deliverance. Nothing
(04:13):
does a man more good A hearty laugh, the visitor said,
coughing as a cloud of smoke surrounded his head. Wow,
what don't you think it is a little close in here? Oh? No,
replied Mark, arising and locking the door. I like a
(04:34):
little fresh air, especially when there's so much smoke in
a room. Oh, there's air enough here. How did you
leave all the folks? Well, Gabe, my youngest, I ain't
as pert as he mote be, but all the others
are steering. He ain't got no chilling, I reckon, No,
(04:58):
the humorous replied, as he vigorously puffed his pipe. Well,
I'm sorry for you. There ain't nothing that adds to
a man's natural enjoyment like children. That boy, Gabe, what
I was talking about? Just now? Why I wouldn't give
him up for the finest yoke steers you've ever seen?
You wouldn't, No, Sir, wouldn't touch him. A ten foot
(05:20):
pole would refuse him? Pine blank, pardon, don't you? I
think it's getting a little too a cluster in here,
Now go not a bit just right. Well, I don't
know the style in this place, but I'll try and
put up with it. After a moment's silence, The visitor continued.
(05:41):
When I left home, h that's my wife, he said
to me, says she, Now say while you're there, don't
smoke that cob pipe. I wanted to follow her advice,
but I put my old fuzzy in my jeans. Now
I believe I'll take a smoke. He took out a
cob pipe and a twist of new tobacco, known in
(06:03):
his neighborhood as tough Sam, whittled off a handful, filled
his pipe, lighted it, placed his feet on the stove,
and went to work. Mark soon began to snuff the
foul air, but he was determined to stand it. The
visitor blew smoke like a tar kiln. Mark grew restless.
(06:24):
Beads of cold perspiration began to gather on his brow.
Throwing down his pipe, he hastily unlocked the door and
fled on the sidewalk. He met a friend, Hello, clemmens,
what's the matter, Twain related what had occurred? Oh you
mean that fellow in brown jeans. Yes, you ought to
(06:46):
have had a better sense than to light your pipe
in his presence. Why, Because he's a member of the
Arkansas legislature. William M. Stewart, United States senator from Nevada,
was in acquaintance of the humorist at this time and
some years since. While in a reminiscent, Mood related the following.
(07:07):
I knew Mark Twain in Washington at a time when
he was without money. He told me his condition and
said he was very anxious to get out his book.
He showed me his notes, and I saw that they
would make a great book and probably bring him in
a fortune. I promised that I would stake him until
(07:27):
he had the book written. I made him a clerk
to my committee in the Senate, which paid him six
dollars per day. Then I hired a man for one
hundred dollars per month to do the work. I then
had rooms on f Street in a house which was
kept by an ancient lady. She belonged to an old
Southern family whose property was lost during the War of
(07:48):
the Rebellion. I had three large rooms on the second floor,
and there was also a hall room. I was very
anxious that Sam should stick to his work until he fit,
as I was almost as much interested as he. I
took him to live with me and gave him the
hall room to sleep in. He did his work in
(08:10):
the room, which I had fixed up as a study.
He would work during the day, and in the evening
he would read me what he had written, after which
he would stroll out about the city for recreation. He
usually returned to his hall bedroom about midnight and would
sit up until early morning, reading, smoking, whistling, and singing.
(08:33):
His noise used to be a source of great annoyance
to the landlady. She was very nervous and unable to
sleep when any gas was burning in the house. She
regarded Sam as a very careless fellow, and I don't
think she liked him very well. She came to see
me one morning with her eyes swollen, her appearance altogether
betokening a very dilapidated condition. She said she had been
(08:56):
unable to sleep all night, and that in fact, for
a week she had been losing sleep. Sam was the
cause of all her trouble, and she told me how
he remained up all the night, burning gas and creating
a rumpus. I informed Sam of the landlady's complaint and
told him he ought to go to bed at a
reasonable hour and not frighten the old lady. Sam replied
(09:19):
that that was all the fun he had, but he
promised to mend his ways, and I thought no more
of the matter. In a week, the landlady came to
me again, and this time with tears in her eyes.
She said she knew she was receiving a very handsome
rent from me for the rooms, and that she also
was aware she could not rent them again during the season,
(09:40):
but she was compelled to ask me to give them
up on account of the way mister Clemmons was wearing
her life out. I felt truly sorry for the old lady.
I called Sam in and repeated to him what the
landlady had said. I told him I would thrash him
if I ever heard another complaint. I said. I did
not want to turn him out. I wanted him to
(10:01):
finish his book. He made one of his smart replies
at the expense of the landlady, and I told him
I would thrash him then and there he begged in
a most pitiful way for me not to do so,
and I could not help laughing, seeing that he had
gotten me into a good humor again. He said that
(10:21):
he would not annoy the old lady again, but that
he would certainly get even with me for having threatened
to thrash him if it took him ten years to
do so. During the winter spent in Washington, Mark wrote
many newspaper letters and a large number of short humorous articles.
These include facts in the Case of the Great Beef
(10:42):
Contract and the account of his resignation as Clerk of
the Senate Committee on Concology. He also wrote Riley newspaper Correspondent,
which attracted a vast amount of attention and was liberally quoted.
In March eighteen sixty eight, he sailed for San Francisco
for the purpose of arranging some trivial business matter on
(11:04):
the Pacific coast. He was absent about five months, returning
to New York about August. While in California and on
board the steamship en route, he completed the manuscript of
His Innocence Abroad, or The New Pilgrim's Progress. Meanwhile, the
San Francisco Alta had secured copyright upon mister Clemens's letters
(11:26):
from the Holy Land. General John MacComb, always the friend
of the struggling author, finally persuaded his partners in the
ALTA office to surrender the copyright, and Mark Twain became
the owner of the innocence abroad in New York. Upon
his return from San Francisco, he resumed his newspaper correspondence,
and in a letter to the Chicago Republican dated New
(11:48):
York August seventeenth, eighteen sixty eight, he devoted three columns
to an account of his return voyage from California. He
carefully reviewed the matter of California immigration changes that had
taken place in San Francisco since his previous visit. He
described the Panama Canal and vividly portrayed life and character
(12:09):
in Central America. Here's an amusing extract from his letter.
Possibly you know that they have a revolution in Central America.
Every time the moon changes, all you have to do
is to get out in the street in Panama or
(12:29):
aspen Wall and give a whoop, and the thing is done.
Shout down with the administration and up with somebody else,
and the revolution follows. Nine tenths of the people break
for home, slam the doors behind them, and get under
the bed. The other tenth go and overturn the government
(12:51):
and banish the officials from president down to notary public.
Then for the next thirty day they inquire anxiously of
all commers wants sort of a stir their little shivalry
made in Europe and America. By that time, the next
(13:13):
revolution is ready to be touched off, and out they go.
From this letter it appears that he had visited Hartford,
where in the Golden Future he was to take up
his permanent residence. In closing the letter to the Chicago Republican,
he wrote, I have been about ten days in Hartford,
(13:36):
and shall return there before very long. I think it
must be the handsomest city in the Union. In summer.
It is the moneyed center of the state, and one
of its capitals. Also, for Connecticut is so law abiding
and so addicted to law, that there is not enough
room in one city to manufacture all of the articles.
(14:01):
Hartford is the place where the insurance companies all live.
They use some of the houses for dwellings, the others
are for insurance offices, so it is easy to see
that there is quite a spirit of speculative enterprise there.
Many of the inhabitants have retired from business, but the
(14:25):
others labor along in the old customary way as presidents
of insurance companies. In eighteen sixty eight sixty nine, Clemens
was living at the Everett House in New York City.
Having completed his innocence abroad, he looked about for a publisher.
His visit to Hartford early in August was for the
purpose of conferring with a publisher there, but he had
(14:48):
met with but little encouragement. He next tried a dozen
publishing houses in New York, but in vain. He sent
his manuscript to other publishers in Boston and Philadelphi with
like success. Somewhat disheartened, he laid the book away in
his room. One day he was entertaining the late Albert D.
(15:08):
Richardson in his apartment. In a self disgusted mood, he
handed Richardson his manuscript to see if his friend thought
it so irredeemably bad. Richardson read it, pronounced it very clever,
full of the extravagant drollery which the American people relish,
and expressed his astonishment that any publisher of intelligence and
(15:29):
experience should have declined it. You can't be any more
astonished than I am, remarked Clemons dryly. These publishers have
astonished as much conceit out of me as a long
siege of sea sickness. Richardson who had published several books
(15:51):
through the American Publishing Company, said that he was going
to Hartford, that he would take the manuscript with him,
and that he was sure the company would be glad
to plish it. He kept his promise and placed the
manuscript in the hands of mister Bliss, then secretary of
the company, who was pleased with it. But some of
the other officers and directors were averse and made so
(16:12):
many objections that Bliss finally declared that he would publish
the volume on his own account. This caused some of
the others to yield, and Innocence Abroad was issued, but
under protest and many misgivings as to its financial success.
The result is well known. The book made Mark Twain famous.
(16:33):
The sale, including pirated editions, reached two hundred thousand copies.
The American Company cleared in the neighborhood of seventy five
thousand dollars. By the publication, Mark was crazed with joy.
He wrote to his old friend Captain Bixby of the
steamboat Paul Jones, thirty tons of paper have been used
(16:56):
in publishing my book, Innocence Abroad. It has met with
a greater sale than any book ever published, except Uncle
Tom's Cabin. The volumes sell from three dollars to five
dollars according to Finish, and I get one half the
prophet Not so bad for a scrub pilot, is it?
(17:20):
How do you run plumb point? A son of a
gun of a place? I would rather be a pilot
than anything I ever tried. The London Saturday Review of
October eighth, eighteen sixty nine reviewed Innocence Abroad at great length,
along with other volumes, as a book of travel. The
review was written most seriously, and one could imagine the
(17:43):
delight of the humorist in reading this tribute to his power.
In fact, the review so amused Mark Twain that he
himself wrote along burlesque on the Saturday Review criticism, in
which he said, to say that Innocence Abroad is a
curious book would be to use the faintest language, would
(18:03):
be to speak of the matterhorn as a neat elevation,
or of Niagara's being nice or pretty. Curious is too
tame a word wherewith to describe the imposing insanity of
this work, there is no word that is large enough
(18:24):
or long enough. Let us therefore photograph a passing glimpse
of book and author, and trust the rest to the reader.
Let the cultivated English student of human nature picture to himself.
This mark Twain as a person capable of doing the
(18:47):
following described things, and not only doing them, but with
incredible innocence printing them calmly andqually. In a book. For instance,
he states that he entered a hair dresser's in Paris
(19:08):
to get shaved, and the first rake the barber dave
with his razor. It loosened his hide and lifted him
out of the chair. This is unquestionably exaggerated. In Florence,
he was so annoyed by beggars that he pretends to
(19:30):
have seized and eaten one in a frantic spirit of revenge.
There is, of course no truth in this. He gives
at full length a theatrical program seventeen or eighteen hundred
years old, which he professes to have found in the
(19:52):
ruins of the Colosseum, among the dirt and mold and rubbish.
It is a sufficient comment upon this statement to remark
that even a cast iron program would not have lasted
so long under the circumstances in Greece. He plainly betrays
(20:15):
both fright and flight upon one occasion, but with frozen
effrontery puts the latter in this falsely tame form. We
sidled towards the purious sidled. Indeed, he did not hesitate
to intimate that at Ephesus, when his mules strayed from
(20:36):
the proper course, he got down, took him under his arm,
carried him to the road, again, pointed him right, remounted,
and went to sleep contentedly till it was time to
restore the beast to the path. Once more, he states
that a growing youth among his ship's passengers was in
(21:00):
the constant habit of appeasing his hunger with soap and
oakum between meals. In Palestine, he tells of ants that
came eleven miles to spend the summer in the desert,
and brought their provisions with them. Yet he shows by
his description of the country that the feat was an impossibility.
(21:24):
He mentions, as if it were the most commonplace matter,
that he cut a Moslem in two in broad daylight
in Jerusalem with Godfrey de Bouillon's sword, and would have
shed more blood if he had had a graveyard of
his own. These statements are unworthy a moment's attention, Mister
(21:47):
Twain or any other foreigner who did such a thing
in Jerusalem would be mobbed and would infallibly lose his life.
But why go on, why repeat more of his adacious
and exasperating falsehoods? Let us close fittingly with this one.
(22:10):
He affirms that in the Mosque of Saint Sophia at Constantinople,
I got my feet so stuck up with a complication
of gums, slime, and general impunity, that I wore out
more than two thousand pair of boot jacks getting my
(22:32):
boots off that night, and even then some Christian hide
peeled off with them. It is monstrous. Such statements are
simply lies. There is no other name for them. Will
the reader longer marvel at the brutal ignorance that pervades
(22:54):
the American nation? In another place, he commits the bald
absurdity of putting the phrase tarnouns into an Italian mouth.
In Rome, he unhesitatingly believes the legend that Saint Philip
Nery's heart was so inflamed with divine love that it
(23:17):
burst his ribs. Believes it wholly because an author with
a learned list of university degrees strung after his name
endorses it. Otherwise, says the gentle idiot, I should have
felt a curiosity to know what Philip had for dinner.
(23:40):
Our author makes a long, fatiguing journey to the Grotto
del Cane on purpose to test its poisoning powers on
a dog, got elaborately ready for the experiment, and then
discovered that he had no dog. A wiser person would
(24:02):
have kept such a thing discreetly to himself, But with
this harmless creature everything comes out. He hurts his foot
in a rut two thousand years old in exhumed POMPEII,
and presently, when staring at one of the cinder like
(24:23):
corpses unearthed in the next square, conceives the idea that
maybe it is the remains of the ancient street commissioner,
and straightway his horror softens down to a sort of
chirpy contentment with the condition of things. We have thus
(24:44):
spoken freely of this man's stupefying simplicity and innocence, but
we cannot deal similarly with his colossal ignorance. We do
not know where to begin, and if we knew where
to begin, we certainly should not know where to leave off.
(25:10):
We will give one specimen, and one only. He did
not know until he got to Rome that Michael Angelo
was dead. And then, instead of crawling away and hiding
his shameful ignorance somewhere, he proceeds to express his pious,
(25:32):
grateful sort of satisfaction that he is gone and out
of his troubles. No, the reader may seek out the
author's exhibitions of his uncultivation of himself. The book is
absolutely dangerous, considering the magnitude and variety of its misstatements,
(25:54):
and yet it is a textbook in the schools of America,
even in our own country. Innocence Abroad had its curious adventures.
In Pennsylvania, a rural clergyman sadly returned the volume to
the book agent with a remark that the man who
could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be
(26:18):
an idiot. End of chapter five, read by John Greenman.
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