Samuel L. Clemens and Olivia Langdon were married in the Langdon
home at Elmira, February 2, 1870, and took up their residence in
Buffalo in a beautiful home, a wedding present from the bride's
father. The story of their wedding, and the amusing circumstances
connected with their establishment in Buffalo, have been told
elsewhere.—[Mark Twain: A Biography, chap. lxxiv.]
Mark Twain now believed that he was through with lecturing. Two
letters to Redpath, his agent, express his comfortable condition.
To James Redpath, in Boston:
BUFFALO, March 22, 1890.
DEAR RED,—I am not going to lecture any more forever. I have got things ciphered down to a fraction now. I know just about what it will cost us to live and I can make the money without lecturing. Therefore old man, count me out.
Your friend,
S. L. CLEMENS.
To James Redpath, in Boston:
ELMIRA, N. Y. May 10, 1870.
FRIEND REDPATH,—I guess I am out of the field permanently.
Have got a lovely wife; a lovely house, bewitchingly furnished; a lovely carriage, and a coachman whose style and dignity are simply awe-inspiring—nothing less—and I am making more money than necessary—by considerable, and therefore why crucify myself nightly on the platform. The subscriber will have to be excused from the present season at least.
Remember me to Nasby, Billings and Fall.—[Redpath's partner in the lecture lyceum.]—Luck to you! I am going to print your menagerie, Parton and all, and make comments.
In next Galaxy I give Nasby's friend and mine from Philadelphia (John Quill, a literary thief) a “hyste.”
Yours always and after.
MARK.
The reference to the Galaxy in the foregoing letter has to do with a
department called Memoranda, which he had undertaken to conduct for
the new magazine. This work added substantially to his income, and
he believed it would be congenial. He was allowed free hand to
write and print what he chose, and some of his best work at this
time was published in the new department, which he continued for a
year.
Mark Twain now seemed to have his affairs well regulated. His
mother and sister were no longer far away in St. Louis. Soon after
his marriage they had, by his advice, taken up residence at
Fredonia, New York, where they could be easily visited from Buffalo.
Altogether, the outlook seemed bright to Mark Twain and his wife,
during the first months of their marriage. Then there came a
change. In a letter which Clemens wrote to his mother and sister we
get the first chapter of disaster.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens, and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:
ELMIRA, N. Y. June 25, 1870.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,—We were called here suddenly by telegram, 3 days ago. Mr. Langdon is very low. We have well-nigh lost hope—all of us except Livy.
Mr. Langdon, whose hope is one of his most prominent characteristics, says himself, this morning, that his recovery is only a possibility, not a probability. He made his will this morning—that is, appointed executors—nothing else was necessary. The household is sad enough Charley is in Bavaria. We telegraphed Munroe & Co. Paris, to notify Charley to come home—they sent the message to Munich. Our message left here at 8 in the morning and Charley's answer arrived less than eight hours afterward. He sailed immediately.
He will reach home two weeks from now. The whole city is troubled. As I write (at the office,) a dispatch arrives from Charley who has reached London, and will sail thence on 28th. He wants news. We cannot send him any.
Affectionately
SAM.
P. S. I sent $300 to Fredonia Bank for Ma—It is in her name.
Mrs. Clemens, herself, was not in the best of health at this time,
but devotion to her father took her to his bedside, where she
insisted upon standing long, hard watches, the strain of which told
upon her severely. Meantime, work must go on; the daily demand of
the newspaper and the monthly call of the Memoranda could not go
unheeded. Also, Bliss wanted a new book, and met Mark Twain at
Elmira to arrange for it. In a letter to Orion we learn of this
project.
To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis:
ELMIRA, July 15, 1870
MY DEAR BRO.,—Per contract I must have another 600-page book ready for my publisher Jan. 2, and I only began it today. The subject of it is a secret, because I may possibly change it. But as it stands, I propose to do up Nevada and Cal., beginning with the trip across the country in the stage. Have you a memorandum of the route we took—or the names of any of the Stations we stopped at? Do you remember any of the scenes, names, incidents or adventures of the coach trip?—for I remember next to nothing about the matter. Jot down a foolscap page of items for me. I wish I could have two days' talk with you.
I suppose I am to get the biggest copyright, this time, ever paid on a subscription book in this country.
Give our love to Mollie.—Mr. Langdon is very low.
Yr Bro
SAM.
The “biggest copyright,” mentioned in this letter, was a royalty of
7 1/2 per cent., which Bliss had agreed to pay, on the retail price
of the book. The book was Roughing It, though this title was not
decided upon until considerably later. Orion Clemens eagerly
furnished a detailed memorandum of the route of their overland
journey, which brought this enthusiastic acknowledgment:
To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis:
BUF., 1870.
DEAR BRO.,—I find that your little memorandum book is going to be ever so much use to me, and will enable me to make quite a coherent narrative of the Plains journey instead of slurring it over and jumping 2,000 miles at a stride. The book I am writing will sell. In return for the use of the little memorandum book I shall take the greatest pleasure in forwarding to you the third $1,000 which the publisher of the forthcoming work sends me or the first $1,000, I am not particular—they will both be in the first quarterly statement of account from the publisher.
In great haste,
Yr Obliged Bro.
SAM.
Love to Mollie. We are all getting along tolerably well.
Mr. Langdon died early in August, and Mrs. Clemens returned to
Buffalo, exhausted in mind and body. If she hoped for rest now, in
the quiet of her own home, she was disappointed, as the two brief
letters that follow clearly show.
To Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:
BUFFALO, Aug. 31, 70.
MY DEAR SISTER,—I know I ought to be thrashed for not writing you, but I have kept putting it off. We get heaps of letters every day; it is a comfort to have somebody like you that will let us shirk and be patient over it. We got the book and I did think I wrote a line thanking you for it-but I suppose I neglected it.
We are getting along tolerably well. Mother [Mrs. Langdon] is here, and Miss Emma Nye. Livy cannot sleep since her father's death—but I give her a narcotic every night and make her. I am just as busy as I can be—am still writing for the Galaxy and also writing a book like the “Innocents” in size and style. I have got my work ciphered down to days, and I haven't a single day to spare between this and the date which, by written contract I am to deliver the M.S. of the book to the publisher.
——In a hurry
Affectionately
SAM
To Orion Clemens, in St, Louis:
BUF. Sept. 9th, 1870.
MY DEAR BRO,—O here! I don't want to be consulted at all about Tenn. I don't want it even mentioned to me. When I make a suggestion it is for you to act upon it or throw it aside, but I beseech you never to ask my advice, opinion or consent about that hated property. If it was because I felt the slightest personal interest in the infernal land that I ever made a suggestion, the suggestion would never be made.
Do exactly as you please with the land—always remember this—that so trivial a percentage as ten per cent will never sell it.
It is only a bid for a somnambulist.
I have no time to turn round, a young lady visitor (schoolmate of Livy's) is dying in the house of typhoid fever (parents are in South Carolina) and the premises are full of nurses and doctors and we are all fagged out.
Yrs.
SAM.
Miss Nye, who had come to cheer her old schoolmate, had been
prostrated with the deadly fever soon after her arrival. Another
period of anxiety and nursing followed. Mrs. Clemens, in spite of
her frail health, devoted much time to her dying friend, until by
the time the end came she was herself in a precarious condition.
This was at the end of September. A little more than a month later,
November 7th, her first child, Langdon Clemens, was prematurely
born. To the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell and wife, of Hartford, Mark
Twain characteristically announced the new arrival.
To Rev. Joseph H. Twichell and wife, in Hartford, Conn.:
BUFFALO, Nov 12, '70.
DEAR UNCLE AND AUNT,—I came into the world on the 7th inst., and consequently am about five days old, now. I have had wretched health ever since I made my appearance. First one thing and then another has kept me under the weather, and as a general thing I have been chilly and uncomfortable.
I am not corpulent, nor am I robust in any way. At birth I only weighed 4 1/2 pounds with my clothes on—and the clothes were the chief feature of the weight, too, I am obliged to confess. But I am doing finely, all things considered. I was at a standstill for 3 days and a half, but during the last 24 hours I have gained nearly an ounce, avoirdupois.
They all say I look very old and venerable—and I am aware, myself, that I never smile. Life seems a serious thing, what I have seen of it—and my observation teaches me that it is made up mainly of hiccups, unnecessary washings, and colic. But no doubt you, who are old, have long since grown accustomed and reconciled to what seems to me such a disagreeable novelty.
My father said, this morning, when my face was in repose and thoughtful, that I looked precisely as young Edward Twichell of Hartford used to look some is months ago—chin, mouth, forehead, expression—everything.
My little mother is very bright and cheery, and I guess she is pretty happy, but I don't know what about. She laughs a great deal, notwithstanding she is sick abed. And she eats a great deal, though she says that is because the nurse desires it. And when she has had all the nurse desires her to have, she asks for more. She is getting along very well indeed.
My aunt Susie Crane has been here some ten days or two weeks, but goes home today, and Granny Fairbanks of Cleveland arrives to take her place.—[Mrs. Fairbanks, of the Quaker City excursion.]
Very lovingly,
LANGDON CLEMENS.
P. S. Father said I had better write because you would be more interested in me, just now, than in the rest of the family.
Clemens had made the acquaintance of the Rev. Joseph Hopkins
Twichell and his wife during his several sojourns in Hartford, in
connection with his book publication, and the two men had
immediately become firm friends. Twichell had come to Elmira in
February to the wedding to assist Rev. Thos. K. Beecher in the
marriage ceremony. Joseph Twichell was a devout Christian, while
Mark Twain was a doubter, even a scoffer, where orthodoxy was
concerned, yet the sincerity and humanity of the two men drew them
together; their friendship was lifelong.
A second letter to Twichell, something more than a month later,
shows a somewhat improved condition in the Clemens household.
To Rev. Twichell, in Hartford:
BUF. Dec. 19th, 1870.
DEAR J. H.,—All is well with us, I believe—though for some days the baby was quite ill. We consider him nearly restored to health now, however. Ask my brother about us—you will find him at Bliss's publishing office, where he is gone to edit Bliss's new paper—left here last Monday. Make his and his wife's acquaintance. Take Mrs. T. to see them as soon as they are fixed.
Livy is up, and the prince keeps her busy and anxious these latter days and nights, but I am a bachelor up stairs and don't have to jump up and get the soothing syrup—though I would as soon do it as not, I assure you. (Livy will be certain to read this letter.)
Tell Harmony (Mrs. T.) that I do hold the baby, and do it pretty handily, too, although with occasional apprehensions that his loose head will fall off. I don't have to quiet him—he hardly ever utters a cry. He is always thinking about something. He is a patient, good little baby.
Smoke? I always smoke from 3 till 5 Sunday afternoons—and in New York the other day I smoked a week, day and night. But when Livy is well I smoke only those two hours on Sunday. I'm “boss” of the habit, now, and shall never let it boss me any more. Originally, I quit solely on Livy's account, (not that I believed there was the faintest reason in the matter, but just as I would deprive myself of sugar in my coffee if she wished it, or quit wearing socks if she thought them immoral), and I stick to it yet on Livy's account, and shall always continue to do so, without a pang. But somehow it seems a pity that you quit, for Mrs. T. didn't mind it if I remember rightly. Ah, it is turning one's back upon a kindly Providence to spurn away from us the good creature he sent to make the breath of life a luxury as well as a necessity, enjoyable as well as useful, to go and quit smoking when then ain't any sufficient excuse for it! Why, my old boy, when they use to tell me I would shorten my life ten years by smoking, they little knew the devotee they were wasting their puerile word upon—they little knew how trivial and valueless I would regard a decade that had no smoking in it! But I won't persuade you, Twichell—I won't until I see you again—but then we'll smoke for a week together, and then shut off again.
I would have gone to Hartford from New York last Saturday, but I got so homesick I couldn't. But maybe I'll come soon.
No, Sir, catch me in the metropolis again, to get homesick.
I didn't know Warner had a book out.
We send oceans and continents of love—I have worked myself down, today.
Yrs always
MARK.
With his establishment in Buffalo, Clemens, as already noted, had
persuaded his sister, now a widow, and his mother, to settle in
Fredonia, not far away. Later, he had found a position for Orion,
as editor of a small paper which Bliss had established. What with
these several diversions and the sorrows and sicknesses of his own
household, we can readily imagine that literary work had been
performed under difficulties. Certainly, humorous writing under
such disturbing conditions could not have been easy, nor could we
expect him to accept an invitation to be present and make a comic
speech at an agricultural dinner, even though Horace Greeley would
preside. However, he sent to the secretary of the association a
letter which might be read at the gathering:
To A. B. Crandall, in Woodberry Falls, N. Y., to be read at an agricultural dinner:
BUFFALO, Dec. 26, 1870.
GENTLEMEN,—I thank you very much for your invitation to the Agricultural dinner, and would promptly accept it and as promptly be there but for the fact that Mr. Greeley is very busy this month and has requested me to clandestinely continue for him in The Tribune the articles “What I Know about Farming.” Consequently the necessity of explaining to the readers of that journal why buttermilk cannot be manufactured profitably at 8 cents a quart out of butter that costs 60 cents a pound compels my stay at home until the article is written.
With reiterated thanks, I am
Yours truly,
MARK TWAIN.
In this letter Mark Twain made the usual mistake as to the title of
the Greeley farming series, “What I Know of Farming” being the
correct form.
The Buffalo Express, under Mark Twain's management, had become a
sort of repository for humorous efforts, often of an indifferent
order. Some of these things, signed by nom de plumes, were charged
to Mark Twain. When Bret Harte's “Heathen Chinee” devastated the
country, and was so widely parodied, an imitation of it entitled,
“Three Aces,” and signed “Carl Byng,” was printed in the Express.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich, then editor of Every Saturday, had not met
Mark Twain, and, noticing the verses printed in the exchanges over
his signature, was one of those who accepted them as Mark Twain's
work. He wrote rather an uncomplimentary note in Every Saturday
concerning the poem and its authorship, characterizing it as a
feeble imitation of Bret Harte's “Heathen Chinee.” Clemens promptly
protested to Aldrich, then as promptly regretted having done so,
feeling that he was making too much of a small matter. Hurriedly he
sent a second brief note.
To Thomas Bailey Aldrich, editor of “Every Saturday,” Boston, Massachusetts:
BUFFALO, Jan. 22, 1870.
DEAR SIR,—Please do not publish the note I sent you the other day about “Hy. Slocum's” plagiarism entitled “Three Aces”—it is not important enough for such a long paragraph. Webb writes me that he has put in a paragraph about it, too—and I have requested him to suppress it. If you would simply state, in a line and a half under “Literary Notes,” that you mistook one “Hy. Slocum” (no, it was one “Carl Byng,” I perceive) “Carl Byng” for Mark Twain, and that it was the former who wrote the plagiarism entitled “Three Aces,” I think that would do a fair justice without any unseemly display. But it is hard to be accused of plagiarism—a crime I never have committed in my life.
Yrs. Truly
MARK TWAIN.
But this came too late. Aldrich replied that he could not be
prevented from doing him justice, as forty-two thousand copies of
the first note, with the editor's apology duly appended, were
already in press. He would withdraw his apology in the next number
of Every Saturday, if Mark Twain said so. Mark Twain's response
this time assumed the proportions of a letter.
To Thomas Bailey Aldrich, in Boston:
472 DELAWARE ST., BUFFALO, Jan. 28.
DEAR MR. ALDRICH,—No indeed, don't take back the apology! Hang it, I don't want to abuse a man's civility merely because he gives me the chance.
I hear a good deal about doing things on the “spur of the moment”—I invariably regret the things I do on the spur of the moment. That disclaimer of mine was a case in point. I am ashamed every time I think of my bursting out before an unconcerned public with that bombastic pow-wow about burning publishers' letters, and all that sort of imbecility, and about my not being an imitator, etc. Who would find out that I am a natural fool if I kept always cool and never let nature come to the surface? Nobody.
But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very decentest people in the land—and this grateful remembrance of mine ought to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a year ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.
Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners of one's memory, now and then, without warning. Just at this moment a picture flits before me: Scene—private room in Barnum's Restaurant, Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T. Goodman, (editor and proprietor Daily “Enterprise”), and “Dan de Quille” and myself, reporters for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such tautology and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to be offensive to the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly reciting a poem about a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting himself and being interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table and shouts of “Splendid, by Shorzhe!” Finally, a long, vociferous, poundiferous and vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion, and then Artemus: “Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates a poet 'at loves his fellow man, stan' up!—Stan' up and drink health and long life to Thomas Bailey Aldrich!—and drink it stanning!” (On all hands fervent, enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.) Then Artemus: “Well—consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!” Which was done.
You must excuse all this stuff from a stranger, for the present, and when I see you I will apologize in full.
Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot through Harte's brain? It was this: When they were trying to decide upon a vignette for the cover of the Overland, a grizzly bear (of the arms of the State of California) was chosen. Nahl Bras. carved him and the page was printed, with him in it, looking thus: [Rude sketch of a grizzly bear.]
As a bear, he was a success—he was a good bear—. But then, it was objected, that he was an objectless bear—a bear that meant nothing in particular, signified nothing,—simply stood there snarling over his shoulder at nothing—and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-natured intruder upon the fair page. All hands said that—none were satisfied. They hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as much to have him there when there was no paint to him. But presently Harte took a pencil and drew these two simple lines under his feet and behold he was a magnificent success!—the ancient symbol of California savagery snarling at the approaching type of high and progressive Civilization, the first Overland locomotive!: [Sketch of a small section of railway track.]
I just think that was nothing less than inspiration itself.
Once more I apologize, and this time I do it “stanning!”
Yrs. Truly
SAML. L. CLEMENS.
The “two simple lines,” of course, were the train rails under the
bear's feet, and completed the striking cover design of the Overland
monthly.
The brief controversy over the “Three Aces” was the beginning of
along and happy friendship between Aldrich and Mark Twain. Howells,
Aldrich, Twichell, and Charles Dudley Warner—these were Mark
Twain's intimates, men that he loved, each for his own special charm
and worth.
Aldrich he considered the most brilliant of living men.
In his reply to Clemens's letter, Aldrich declared that he was glad
now that, for the sake of such a letter, he had accused him falsely,
and added:
“Mem. Always abuse people.
“When you come to Boston, if you do not make your presence manifest
to me, I'll put in a!! in 'Every Saturday' to the effect that
though you are generally known as Mark Twain your favorite nom de
plume is 'Barry Gray.'”
Clemens did not fail to let Aldrich know when he was in Boston
again, and the little coterie of younger writers forgathered to give
him welcome.
Buffalo agreed with neither Mrs. Clemens nor the baby. What with
nursing and anguish of mind, Mark Twain found that he could do
nothing on the new book, and that he must give up his magazine
department. He had lost interest in his paper and his surroundings
in general. Journalism and authorship are poor yoke-mates. To
Onion Clemens, at this time editing Bliss's paper at Hartford, he
explained the situation.
To Onion Clemens, in Hartford:
BUFFALO, 4th 1871.
MY DEAR BRO,—What I wanted of the “Liar” Sketch, was to work it into the California book—which I shall do. But day before yesterday I concluded to go out of the Galaxy on the strength of it, so I have turned it into the last Memoranda I shall ever write, and published it as a “specimen chapter” of my forthcoming book.
I have written the Galaxy people that I will never furnish them another article long or short, for any price but $500.00 cash—and have requested them not to ask me for contributions any more, even at that price.
I hope that lets them out, for I will stick to that. Now do try and leave me clear out of the 'Publisher' for the present, for I am endangering my reputation by writing too much—I want to get out of the public view for awhile.
I am still nursing Livy night and day and cannot write anything. I am nearly worn out. We shall go to Elmira ten days hence (if Livy can travel on a mattress then,) and stay there till I have finished the California book—say three months. But I can't begin work right away when I get there—must have a week's rest, for I have been through 30 days' terrific siege.
That makes it after the middle of March before I can go fairly to work—and then I'll have to hump myself and not lose a moment. You and Bliss just put yourselves in my place and you will see that my hands are full and more than full.
When I told Bliss in N. Y. that I would write something for the Publisher I could not know that I was just about to lose fifty days. Do you see the difference it makes? Just as soon as ever I can, I will send some of the book M.S. but right in the first chapter I have got to alter the whole style of one of my characters and re-write him clear through to where I am now. It is no fool of a job, I can tell you, but the book will be greatly bettered by it. Hold on a few days—four or five—and I will see if I can get a few chapters fixed to send to Bliss.
I have offered this dwelling house and the Express for sale, and when we go to Elmira we leave here for good. I shall not select a new home till the book is finished, but we have little doubt that Hartford will be the place.
We are almost certain of that. Ask Bliss how it would be to ship our furniture to Hartford, rent an upper room in a building and unbox it and store it there where somebody can frequently look after it. Is not the idea good? The furniture is worth $10,000 or $12,000 and must not be jammed into any kind of a place and left unattended to for a year.
The first man that offers $25,000 for our house can take it—it cost that. What are taxes there? Here, all bunched together—of all kinds, they are 7 per cent—simply ruin.
The things you have written in the Publisher are tip-top.
In haste,
Yr Bro
SAM
There are no further letters until the end of April, by which time
the situation had improved. Clemens had sold his interest in the
Express (though at a loss), had severed his magazine connection, and
was located at Quarry Farm, on a beautiful hilltop above Elmira, the
home of Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Theodore Crane. The pure air
and rest of that happy place, where they were to spend so many
idyllic summers, had proved beneficial to the sick ones, and work on
the new book progressed in consequence. Then Mark Twain's old
editor, “Joe” Goodman, came from Virginia City for a visit, and his
advice and encouragement were of the greatest value. Clemens even
offered to engage Goodman on a salary, to remain until he had
finished his book. Goodman declined the salary, but extended his
visit, and Mark Twain at last seems to have found himself working
under ideal conditions. He jubilantly reports his progress.
To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:
ELMIRA, Monday. May 15th 1871
FRIEND BLISS,—Yrs rec'd enclosing check for $703.35 The old “Innocents” holds out handsomely.
I have MS. enough on hand now, to make (allowing for engravings) about 400 pages of the book—consequently am two-thirds done. I intended to run up to Hartford about the middle of the week and take it along; because it has chapters in it that ought by all means to be in the prospectus; but I find myself so thoroughly interested in my work, now (a thing I have not experienced for months) that I can't bear to lose a single moment of the inspiration. So I will stay here and peg away as long as it lasts. My present idea is to write as much more as I have already written, and then cull from the mass the very best chapters and discard the rest. I am not half as well satisfied with the first part of the book as I am with what I am writing now. When I get it done I want to see the man who will begin to read it and not finish it. If it falls short of the “Innocents” in any respect I shall lose my guess.
When I was writing the “Innocents” my daily stunt was 30 pages of MS and I hardly ever got beyond it; but I have gone over that nearly every day for the last ten. That shows that I am writing with a red-hot interest. Nothing grieves me now—nothing troubles me, nothing bothers me or gets my attention—I don't think of anything but the book, and I don't have an hour's unhappiness about anything and don't care two cents whether school keeps or not. It will be a bully book. If I keep up my present lick three weeks more I shall be able and willing to scratch out half of the chapters of the Overland narrative—and shall do it.
You do not mention having received my second batch of MS, sent a week or two ago—about 100 pages.
If you want to issue a prospectus and go right to canvassing, say the word and I will forward some more MS—or send it by hand—special messenger. Whatever chapters you think are unquestionably good, we will retain of course, so they can go into a prospectus as well one time as another. The book will be done soon, now. I have 1200 pages of MS already written and am now writing 200 a week—more than that, in fact; during the past week wrote 23 one day, then 30, 33, 35, 52, and 65.—How's that?
It will be a starchy book, and should be full of snappy pictures—especially pictures worked in with the letterpress. The dedication will be worth the price of the volume—thus:
To the Late Cain.
This Book is Dedicated:
Not on account of respect for his memory, for it merits little respect; not on account of sympathy with him, for his bloody deed placed him without the pale of sympathy, strictly speaking: but out of a mere human commiseration for him that it was his misfortune to live in a dark age that knew not the beneficent Insanity Plea.
I think it will do. Yrs. CLEMENS.
P. S.—The reaction is beginning and my stock is looking up. I am getting the bulliest offers for books and almanacs; am flooded with lecture invitations, and one periodical offers me $6,000 cash for 12 articles, of any length and on any subject, treated humorously or otherwise.
The suggested dedication “to the late Cain” may have been the
humoristic impulse of the moment. At all events, it did not
materialize.
Clemens's enthusiasm for work was now such that he agreed with
Redpath to return to the platform that autumn, and he began at once
writing lectures. His disposal of the Buffalo paper had left him
considerably in debt, and platforming was a sure and quick method of
retrenchment. More than once in the years ahead Mark Twain would
return to travel and one-night stands to lift a burden of debt.
Brief letters to Redpath of this time have an interest and even a
humor of their own.
Letters to James Redpath, in Boston:
ELMIRA, June 27, 1871.
DEAR RED,—Wrote another lecture—a third one-today. It is the one I am going to deliver. I think I shall call it “Reminiscences of Some Pleasant Characters Whom I Have Met,” (or should the “whom” be left out?) It covers my whole acquaintance—kings, lunatics, idiots and all. Suppose you give the item a start in the Boston papers. If I write fifty lectures I shall only choose one and talk that one only.
No sir: Don't you put that scarecrow (portrait) from the Galaxy in, I won't stand that nightmare.
Yours,
MARK.
ELMIRA, July 10, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,—I never made a success of a lecture delivered in a church
yet. People are afraid to laugh in a church. They can't be made to do it
in any possible way.
Success to Fall's carbuncle and many happy returns.
Yours,
MARK.
To Mr. Fall, in Boston:
ELMIRA, N. Y. July 20, 1871.
FRIEND FALL,—Redpath tells me to blow up. Here goes! I wanted you to scare Rondout off with a big price. $125 ain't big. I got $100 the first time I ever talked there and now they have a much larger hall. It is a hard town to get to—I run a chance of getting caught by the ice and missing next engagement. Make the price $150 and let them draw out.
Yours
MARK
Letters to James Redpath, in Boston:
HARTFORD, Tuesday Aug. 8, 1871.
DEAR RED,—I am different from other women; my mind changes oftener. People who have no mind can easily be steadfast and firm, but when a man is loaded down to the guards with it, as I am, every heavy sea of foreboding or inclination, maybe of indolence, shifts the cargo. See? Therefore, if you will notice, one week I am likely to give rigid instructions to confine me to New England; next week, send me to Arizona; the next week withdraw my name; the next week give you full untrammelled swing; and the week following modify it. You must try to keep the run of my mind, Redpath, it is your business being the agent, and it always was too many for me. It appears to me to be one of the finest pieces of mechanism I have ever met with. Now about the West, this week, I am willing that you shall retain all the Western engagements. But what I shall want next week is still with God.
Let us not profane the mysteries with soiled hands and prying eyes of sin.
Yours,
MARK.
P. S. Shall be here 2 weeks, will run up there when Nasby comes.
ELMIRA, N. Y. Sept. 15, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,—I wish you would get me released from the lecture at Buffalo. I mortally hate that society there, and I don't doubt they hired me. I once gave them a packed house free of charge, and they never even had the common politeness to thank me. They left me to shift for myself, too, a la Bret Harte at Harvard. Get me rid of Buffalo! Otherwise I'll have no recourse left but to get sick the day I lecture there. I can get sick easy enough, by the simple process of saying the word—well never mind what word—I am not going to lecture there.
Yours,
MARK.
BUFFALO, Sept. 26, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,—We have thought it all over and decided that we can't possibly talk after Feb. 2.
We shall take up our residence in Hartford 6 days from now
Yours
MARK.
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