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Pause.

Oh no, not at all; I LIKE to talk--but I'm afraid I'm keeping you
from your affairs.

Pause.

Visitors?

Pause.

No, we never use butter on them.

Pause.

Yes, that is a very good way; but all the cook-books say they
are very unhealthy when they are out of season. And HE doesn't
like them, anyway--especially canned.

Pause.

Oh, I think that is too high for them; we have never paid over fifty
cents a bunch.

Pause.

MUST you go? Well, GOOD-by.

Pause.

Yes, I think so. GOOD-by.

Pause.

Four o'clock, then--I'll be ready. GOOD-by.

Pause.

Thank you ever so much. GOOD-by.

Pause.

Oh, not at all!--just as fresh--WHICH? Oh, I'm glad to hear you
say that. GOOD-by.

(Hangs up the telephone and says, "Oh, it DOES tire a person's
arm so!")

A man delivers a single brutal "Good-by," and that is the end of it.
Not so with the gentle sex--I say it in their praise; they cannot
abide abruptness.

***

EDWARD MILLS AND GEORGE BENTON: A TALE

These two were distantly related to each other--seventh cousins,
or something of that sort. While still babies they became orphans,
and were adopted by the Brants, a childless couple, who quickly
grew very fond of them. The Brants were always saying: "Be pure,
honest, sober, industrious, and considerate of others, and success
in life is assured." The children heard this repeated some thousands
of times before they understood it; they could repeat it themselves
long before they could say the Lord's Prayer; it was painted over
the nursery door, and was about the first thing they learned to read.
It was destined to be the unswerving rule of Edward Mills's life.
Sometimes the Brants changed the wording a little, and said:
"Be pure, honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never
lack friends."

Baby Mills was a comfort to everybody about him. When he wanted
candy and could not have it, he listened to reason, and contented
himself without it. When Baby Benton wanted candy, he cried for it
until he got it. Baby Mills took care of his toys; Baby Benton
always destroyed his in a very brief time, and then made himself
so insistently disagreeable that, in order to have peace in the house,
little Edward was persuaded to yield up his play-things to him.

When the children were a little older, Georgie became a heavy expense
in one respect: he took no care of his clothes; consequently, he
shone frequently in new ones, with was not the case with Eddie.
The boys grew apace. Eddie was an increasing comfort, Georgie an
increasing solicitude. It was always sufficient to say, in answer
to Eddie's petitions, "I would rather you would not do it"--
meaning swimming, skating, picnicking, berrying, circusing,
and all sorts of things which boys delight in. But NO answer
was sufficient for Georgie; he had to be humored in his desires,
or he would carry them with a high hand. Naturally, no boy got
more swimming skating, berrying, and so forth than he; no body
ever had a better time. The good Brants did not allow the boys
to play out after nine in summer evenings; they were sent to bed
at that hour; Eddie honorably remained, but Georgie usually slipped
out of the window toward ten, and enjoyed himself until midnight.
It seemed impossible to break Georgie of this bad habit, but the
Brants managed it at last by hiring him, with apples and marbles,
to stay in. The good Brants gave all their time and attention
to vain endeavors to regulate Georgie; they said, with grateful
tears in their eyes, that Eddie needed no efforts of theirs,
he was so good, so considerate, and in all ways so perfect.

By and by the boys were big enough to work, so they were apprenticed
to a trade: Edward went voluntarily; George was coaxed and bribed.
Edward worked hard and faithfully, and ceased to be an expense to the
good Brants; they praised him, so did his master; but George ran away,
and it cost Mr. Brant both money and trouble to hunt him up and get
him back. By and by he ran away again--more money and more trouble.
He ran away a third time--and stole a few things to carry with him.
Trouble and expense for Mr. Brant once more; and, besides, it was with
the greatest difficulty that he succeeded in persuading the master
to let the youth go unprosecuted for the theft.

Edward worked steadily along, and in time became a full partner
in his master's business. George did not improve; he kept the loving
hearts of his aged benefactors full of trouble, and their hands full
of inventive activities to protect him from ruin. Edward, as a boy,
had interested himself in Sunday-schools, debating societies,
penny missionary affairs, anti-tobacco organizations, anti-profanity
associations, and all such things; as a man, he was a quiet but
steady and reliable helper in the church, the temperance societies,
and in all movements looking to the aiding and uplifting of men. This
excited no remark, attracted no attention--for it was his "natural bent."

Finally, the old people died. The will testified their loving
pride in Edward, and left their little property to George--
because he "needed it"; whereas, "owing to a bountiful Providence,"
such was not the case with Edward. The property was left to
George conditionally: he must buy out Edward's partner with it;
else it must go to a benevolent organization called the Prisoner's
Friend Society. The old people left a letter, in which they begged
their dear son Edward to take their place and watch over George,
and help and shield him as they had done.

Edward dutifully acquiesced, and George became his partner in
the business. He was not a valuable partner: he had been meddling
with drink before; he soon developed into a constant tippler now,
and his flesh and eyes showed the fact unpleasantly. Edward had
been courting a sweet and kindly spirited girl for some time.
They loved each other dearly, and--But about this period George began
to haunt her tearfully and imploringly, and at last she went crying
to Edward, and said her high and holy duty was plain before her--
she must not let her own selfish desires interfere with it:
she must marry "poor George" and "reform him." It would break
her heart, she knew it would, and so on; but duty was duty.
So she married George, and Edward's heart came very near breaking,
as well as her own. However, Edward recovered, and married another girl--
a very excellent one she was, too.

Children came to both families. Mary did her honest best to reform
her husband, but the contract was too large. George went on drinking,
and by and by he fell to misusing her and the little ones sadly.
A great many good people strove with George--they were always at it,
in fact--but he calmly took such efforts as his due and their duty,
and did not mend his ways. He added a vice, presently--that of
secret gambling. He got deeply in debt; he borrowed money on the
firm's credit, as quietly as he could, and carried this system so far
and so successfully that one morning the sheriff took possession of
the establishment, and the two cousins found themselves penniless.

Times were hard, now, and they grew worse. Edward moved his family
into a garret, and walked the streets day and night, seeking work.
He begged for it, but it was really not to be had. He was astonished
to see how soon his face became unwelcome; he was astonished
and hurt to see how quickly the ancient interest which people had
had in him faded out and disappeared. Still, he MUST get work;
so he swallowed his chagrin, and toiled on in search of it.
At last he got a job of carrying bricks up a ladder in a hod,
and was a grateful man in consequence; but after that NOBODY knew
him or cared anything about him. He was not able to keep up
his dues in the various moral organizations to which he belonged,
and had to endure the sharp pain of seeing himself brought under
the disgrace of suspension.

But the faster Edward died out of public knowledge and interest,
the faster George rose in them. He was found lying, ragged and drunk,
in the gutter one morning. A member of the Ladies' Temperance Refuge
fished him out, took him in hand, got up a subscription for him,
kept him sober a whole week, then got a situation for him.
An account of it was published.

General attention was thus drawn to the poor fellow, and a great
many people came forward and helped him toward reform with their
countenance and encouragement. He did not drink a drop for two months,
and meantime was the pet of the good. Then he fell--in the gutter;
and there was general sorrow and lamentation. But the noble
sisterhood rescued him again. They cleaned him up, they fed him,
they listened to the mournful music of his repentances, they got
him his situation again. An account of this, also, was published,
and the town was drowned in happy tears over the re-restoration
of the poor beast and struggling victim of the fatal bowl.
A grand temperance revival was got up, and after some rousing
speeches had been made the chairman said, impressively: "We are
not about to call for signers; and I think there is a spectacle
in store for you which not many in this house will be able to view
with dry eyes." There was an eloquent pause, and then George Benton,
escorted by a red-sashed detachment of the Ladies of the Refuge,
stepped forward upon the platform and signed the pledge. The air
was rent with applause, and everybody cried for joy. Everybody wrung
the hand of the new convert when the meeting was over; his salary
was enlarged next day; he was the talk of the town, and its hero.
An account of it was published.

George Benton fell, regularly, every three months, but was faithfully
rescued and wrought with, every time, and good situations were
found for him. Finally, he was taken around the country lecturing,
as a reformed drunkard, and he had great houses and did an immense
amount of good.

He was so popular at home, and so trusted--during his sober intervals--
that he was enabled to use the name of a principal citizen, and get
a large sum of money at the bank. A mighty pressure was brought
to bear to save him from the consequences of his forgery, and it
was partially successful--he was "sent up" for only two years.
When, at the end of a year, the tireless efforts of the benevolent
were crowned with success, and he emerged from the penitentiary
with a pardon in his pocket, the Prisoner's Friend Society met him
at the door with a situation and a comfortable salary, and all
the other benevolent people came forward and gave him advice,
encouragement and help. Edward Mills had once applied to the Prisoner's
Friend Society for a situation, when in dire need, but the question,
"Have you been a prisoner?" made brief work of his case.

While all these things were going on, Edward Mills had been
quietly making head against adversity. He was still poor, but was
in receipt of a steady and sufficient salary, as the respected
and trusted cashier of a bank. George Benton never came near him,
and was never heard to inquire about him. George got to indulging
in long absences from the town; there were ill reports about him,
but nothing definite.

One winter's night some masked burglars forced their way into the bank,
and found Edward Mills there alone. They commanded him to reveal
the "combination," so that they could get into the safe. He refused.
They threatened his life. He said his employers trusted him,
and he could not be traitor to that trust. He could die, if he must,
but while he lived he would be faithful; he would not yield up
the "combination." The burglars killed him.

The detectives hunted down the criminals; the chief one proved
to be George Benton. A wide sympathy was felt for the widow and
orphans of the dead man, and all the newspapers in the land begged
that all the banks in the land would testify their appreciation
of the fidelity and heroism of the murdered cashier by coming
forward with a generous contribution of money in aid of his family,
now bereft of support. The result was a mass of solid cash amounting
to upward of five hundred dollars--an average of nearly three-eights
of a cent for each bank in the Union. The cashier's own bank
testified its gratitude by endeavoring to show (but humiliatingly
failed in it) that the peerless servant's accounts were not square,
and that he himself had knocked his brains out with a bludgeon
to escape detection and punishment.

George Benton was arraigned for trial. Then everybody seemed to
forget the widow and orphans in their solicitude for poor George.
Everything that money and influence could do was done to save him,
but it all failed; he was sentenced to death. Straightway the
Governor was besieged with petitions for commutation or pardon;
they were brought by tearful young girls; by sorrowful old maids;
by deputations of pathetic widows; by shoals of impressive orphans.
But no, the Governor--for once--would not yield.

Now George Benton experienced religion. The glad news flew all around.
From that time forth his cell was always full of girls and women and
fresh flowers; all the day long there was prayer, and hymn-singing,
and thanksgiving, and homilies, and tears, with never an interruption,
except an occasional five-minute intermission for refreshments.

This sort of thing continued up to the very gallows, and George
Benton went proudly home, in the black cap, before a wailing
audience of the sweetest and best that the region could produce.
His grave had fresh flowers on it every day, for a while,
and the head-stone bore these words, under a hand pointing aloft:
"He has fought the good fight."

The brave cashier's head-stone has this inscription: "Be pure,
honest, sober, industrious, considerate, and you will never--"

Nobody knows who gave the order to leave it that way, but it was
so given.

The cashier's family are in stringent circumstances, now, it is said;
but no matter; a lot of appreciative people, who were not willing
that an act so brave and true as his should go unrewarded,
have collected forty-two thousand dollars--and built a Memorial
Church with it.

***

THE FIVE BOONS OF LIFE

Chapter I

In the morning of life came a good fairy with her basket, and said:

"Here are gifts. Take one, leave the others. And be wary,
chose wisely; oh, choose wisely! for only one of them is valuable."

The gifts were five: Fame, Love, Riches, Pleasure, Death.
The youth said, eagerly:

"There is no need to consider"; and he chose Pleasure.

He went out into the world and sought out the pleasures that youth
delights in. But each in its turn was short-lived and disappointing,
vain and empty; and each, departing, mocked him. In the end he said:
"These years I have wasted. If I could but choose again, I would
choose wisely."

Chapter II

The fairy appeared, and said:

"Four of the gifts remain. Choose once more; and oh, remember--
time is flying, and only one of them is precious."

The man considered long, then chose Love; and did not mark the tears
that rose in the fairy's eyes.

After many, many years the man sat by a coffin, in an empty home.
And he communed with himself, saying: "One by one they have gone
away and left me; and now she lies here, the dearest and the last.
Desolation after desolation has swept over me; for each hour
of happiness the treacherous trader, Love, as sold me I have paid
a thousand hours of grief. Out of my heart of hearts I curse him."

Chapter III

"Choose again." It was the fairy speaking.

"The years have taught you wisdom--surely it must be so.
Three gifts remain. Only one of them has any worth--remember it,
and choose warily."

The man reflected long, then chose Fame; and the fairy, sighing,
went her way.

Years went by and she came again, and stood behind the man where he
sat solitary in the fading day, thinking. And she knew his thought:

"My name filled the world, and its praises were on every tongue,
and it seemed well with me for a little while. How little a while
it was! Then came envy; then detraction; then calumny; then hate;
then persecution. Then derision, which is the beginning of the end.
And last of all came pity, which is the funeral of fame. Oh,
the bitterness and misery of renown! target for mud in its prime,
for contempt and compassion in its decay."

Chapter IV

"Chose yet again." It was the fairy's voice.

"Two gifts remain. And do not despair. In the beginning there
was but one that was precious, and it is still here."

"Wealth--which is power! How blind I was!" said the man.
"Now, at last, life will be worth the living. I will spend,
squander, dazzle. These mockers and despisers will crawl in the
dirt before me, and I will feed my hungry heart with their envy.
I will have all luxuries, all joys, all enchantments of the spirit,
all contentments of the body that man holds dear. I will buy,
buy, buy! deference, respect, esteem, worship--every pinchbeck
grace of life the market of a trivial world can furnish forth.
I have lost much time, and chosen badly heretofore, but let that pass;
I was ignorant then, and could but take for best what seemed so."

Three short years went by, and a day came when the man sat shivering
in a mean garret; and he was gaunt and wan and hollow-eyed,
and clothed in rags; and he was gnawing a dry crust and mumbling:

"Curse all the world's gifts, for mockeries and gilded lies!
And miscalled, every one. They are not gifts, but merely lendings.
Pleasure, Love, Fame, Riches: they are but temporary disguises for
lasting realities--Pain, Grief, Shame, Poverty. The fairy said true;
in all her store there was but one gift which was precious,
only one that was not valueless. How poor and cheap and mean I
know those others now to be, compared with that inestimable one,
that dear and sweet and kindly one, that steeps in dreamless and
enduring sleep the pains that persecute the body, and the shames
and griefs that eat the mind and heart. Bring it! I am weary,
I would rest."

Chapter V

The fairy came, bringing again four of the gifts, but Death was wanting.
She said:

"I gave it to a mother's pet, a little child. It was ignorant,
but trusted me, asking me to choose for it. You did not ask me
to choose."

"Oh, miserable me! What is left for me?"

"What not even you have deserved: the wanton insult of Old Age."

***

THE FIRST WRITING-MACHINES

From My Unpublished Autobiography

Some days ago a correspondent sent in an old typewritten sheet,
faded by age, containing the following letter over the signature
of Mark Twain:

"Hartford, March 10, 1875.

"Please do not use my name in any way. Please do not even divulge
that fact that I own a machine. I have entirely stopped using
the typewriter, for the reason that I never could write a letter
with it to anybody without receiving a request by return mail that I
would not only describe the machine, but state what progress I had
made in the use of it, etc., etc. I don't like to write letters,
and so I don't want people to know I own this curiosity-breeding
little joker."

A note was sent to Mr. Clemens asking him if the letter was genuine
and whether he really had a typewriter as long ago as that.
Mr. Clemens replied that his best answer is the following chapter
from his unpublished autobiography:

1904. VILLA QUARTO, FLORENCE, JANUARY.

Dictating autobiography to a typewriter is a new experience for me,
but it goes very well, and is going to save time and "language"--
the kind of language that soothes vexation.

I have dictated to a typewriter before--but not autobiography.
Between that experience and the present one there lies a mighty gap--
more than thirty years! It is sort of lifetime. In that wide interval
much has happened--to the type-machine as well as to the rest of us.
At the beginning of that interval a type-machine was a curiosity.
The person who owned one was a curiosity, too. But now it is the
other way about: the person who DOESN'T own one is a curiosity.
I saw a type-machine for the first time in--what year? I suppose it
was 1873--because Nasby was with me at the time, and it was in Boston.
We must have been lecturing, or we could not have been in Boston,
I take it. I quitted the platform that season.

But never mind about that, it is no matter. Nasby and I saw
the machine through a window, and went in to look at it.
The salesman explained it to us, showed us samples of its work,
and said it could do fifty-seven words a minute--a statement
which we frankly confessed that we did not believe. So he put
his type-girl to work, and we timed her by the watch. She actually
did the fifty-seven in sixty seconds. We were partly convinced,
but said it probably couldn't happen again. But it did.
We timed the girl over and over again--with the same result always:
she won out. She did her work on narrow slips of paper, and we
pocketed them as fast as she turned them out, to show as curiosities.
The price of the machine was one hundred and twenty-five dollars.
I bought one, and we went away very much excited.

At the hotel we got out our slips and were a little disappointed
to find that they contained the same words. The girl had economized
time and labor by using a formula which she knew by heart.
However, we argued--safely enough--that the FIRST type-girl must
naturally take rank with the first billiard-player: neither of them
could be expected to get out of the game any more than a third or a
half of what was in it. If the machine survived--IF it survived--
experts would come to the front, by and by, who would double the girl's
output without a doubt. They would do one hundred words a minute--
my talking speed on the platform. That score has long ago been beaten.

At home I played with the toy, repeated and repeating and repeated "The
Boy stood on the Burning Deck," until I could turn that boy's adventure
out at the rate of twelve words a minute; then I resumed the pen,
for business, and only worked the machine to astonish inquiring visitors.
They carried off many reams of the boy and his burning deck.

By and by I hired a young woman, and did my first dictating (letters,
merely), and my last until now. The machine did not do both capitals
and lower case (as now), but only capitals. Gothic capitals they were,
and sufficiently ugly. I remember the first letter I dictated.
it was to Edward Bok, who was a boy then. I was not acquainted
with him at that time. His present enterprising spirit is not new--
he had it in that early day. He was accumulating autographs, and was
not content with mere signatures, he wanted a whole autograph LETTER.
I furnished it--in type-written capitals, SIGNATURE AND ALL.
It was long; it was a sermon; it contained advice; also reproaches.
I said writing was my TRADE, my bread-and-butter; I said it was
not fair to ask a man to give away samples of his trade; would he
ask the blacksmith for a horseshoe? would he ask the doctor for
a corpse?

Now I come to an important matter--as I regard it. In the year
'74 the young woman copied a considerable part of a book of mine
ON THE MACHINE. In a previous chapter of this Autobiography I
have claimed that I was the first person in the world that ever had
a telephone in the house for practical purposes; I will now claim--
until dispossess--that I was the first person in the world to APPLY
THE TYPE-MACHINE TO LITERATURE. That book must have been THE
ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER. I wrote the first half of it in '72,
the rest of it in '74. My machinist type-copied a book for me
in '74, so I concluded it was that one.

That early machine was full of caprices, full of defects--devilish ones.
It had as many immoralities as the machine of today has virtues.
After a year or two I found that it was degrading my character,
so I thought I would give it to Howells. He was reluctant, for he
was suspicious of novelties and unfriendly toward them, and he remains
so to this day. But I persuaded him. He had great confidence in me,
and I got him to believe things about the machine that I did not
believe myself. He took it home to Boston, and my morals began
to improve, but his have never recovered.

He kept it six months, and then returned it to me. I gave it away
twice after that, but it wouldn't stay; it came back. Then I
gave it to our coachman, Patrick McAleer, who was very grateful,
because he did not know the animal, and thought I was trying to
make him wiser and better. As soon as he got wiser and better he
traded it to a heretic for a side-saddle which he could not use,
and there my knowledge of its history ends.

***

ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER

It is almost a fortnight now that I am domiciled in a medieval
villa in the country, a mile or two from Florence. I cannot speak
the language; I am too old not to learn how, also too busy when I
am busy, and too indolent when I am not; wherefore some will
imagine that I am having a dull time of it. But it is not so.
The "help" are all natives; they talk Italian to me, I answer
in English; I do not understand them, they do not understand me,
consequently no harm is done, and everybody is satisfied. In order
to be just and fair, I throw in an Italian word when I have one,
and this has a good influence. I get the word out of the morning paper.
I have to use it while it is fresh, for I find that Italian words
do not keep in this climate. They fade toward night, and next
morning they are gone. But it is no matter; I get a new one out
of the paper before breakfast, and thrill the domestics with it
while it lasts. I have no dictionary, and I do not want one;
I can select words by the sound, or by orthographic aspect.
Many of them have French or German or English look, and these are
the ones I enslave for the day's service. That is, as a rule.
Not always. If I find a learnable phrase that has an imposing look
and warbles musically along I do not care to know the meaning of it;
I pay it out to the first applicant, knowing that if I pronounce it
carefully HE will understand it, and that's enough.

Yesterday's word was AVANTI. It sounds Shakespearian, and probably
means Avaunt and quit my sight. Today I have a whole phrase:
SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO. I do not know what it means, but it seems
to fit in everywhere and give satisfaction. Although as a rule
my words and phrases are good for one day and train only, I have
several that stay by me all the time, for some unknown reason,
and these come very handy when I get into a long conversation and need
things to fire up with in monotonous stretches. One of the best ones
is DOV' `E IL GATTO. It nearly always produces a pleasant surprise,
therefore I save it up for places where I want to express applause
or admiration. The fourth word has a French sound, and I think
the phrase means "that takes the cake."

During my first week in the deep and dreamy stillness of this woodsy
and flowery place I was without news of the outside world, and was
well content without it. It has been four weeks since I had seen
a newspaper, and this lack seemed to give life a new charm and grace,
and to saturate it with a feeling verging upon actual delight.
Then came a change that was to be expected: the appetite for news
began to rise again, after this invigorating rest. I had to feed it,
but I was not willing to let it make me its helpless slave again;
I determined to put it on a diet, and a strict and limited one.
So I examined an Italian paper, with the idea of feeding it on that,
and on that exclusively. On that exclusively, and without help of
a dictionary. In this way I should surely be well protected against
overloading and indigestion.

A glance at the telegraphic page filled me with encouragement.
There were no scare-heads. That was good--supremely good. But there
were headings--one-liners and two-liners--and that was good too;
for without these, one must do as one does with a German paper--pay our
precious time in finding out what an article is about, only to discover,
in many cases, that there is nothing in it of interest to you.
The headline is a valuable thing.

Necessarily we are all fond of murders, scandals, swindles,
robberies, explosions, collisions, and all such things, when we
knew the people, and when they are neighbors and friends, but when
they are strangers we do not get any great pleasure out of them,
as a rule. Now the trouble with an American paper is that it has
no discrimination; it rakes the whole earth for blood and garbage,
and the result is that you are daily overfed and suffer a surfeit.
By habit you stow this muck every day, but you come by and by to
take no vital interest in it--indeed, you almost get tired of it.
As a rule, forty-nine-fiftieths of it concerns strangers only--
people away off yonder, a thousand miles, two thousand miles,
ten thousand miles from where you are. Why, when you come to think
of it, who cares what becomes of those people? I would not give
the assassination of one personal friend for a whole massacre
of those others. And, to my mind, one relative or neighbor mixed
up in a scandal is more interesting than a whole Sodom and Gomorrah
of outlanders gone rotten. Give me the home product every time.

Very well. I saw at a glance that the Florentine paper would
suit me: five out of six of its scandals and tragedies were local;
they were adventures of one's very neighbors, one might almost say
one's friends. In the matter of world news there was not too much,
but just about enough. I subscribed. I have had no occasion
to regret it. Every morning I get all the news I need for the day;
sometimes from the headlines, sometimes from the text. I have never
had to call for a dictionary yet. I read the paper with ease.
Often I do not quite understand, often some of the details escape me,
but no matter, I get the idea. I will cut out a passage or two,
then you see how limpid the language is:

Il ritorno dei Beati d'Italia

Elargizione del Re all' Ospedale italiano

The first line means that the Italian sovereigns are coming back--
they have been to England. The second line seems to mean that they
enlarged the King at the Italian hospital. With a banquet, I suppose.
An English banquet has that effect. Further:

Il ritorno dei Sovrani

a Roma

ROMA, 24, ore 22,50.--I Sovrani e le Principessine Reali si attendono
a Roma domani alle ore 15,51.

Return of the sovereigns to Rome, you see. Date of the telegram,
Rome, November 24, ten minutes before twenty-three o'clock. The
telegram seems to say, "The Sovereigns and the Royal Children expect
themselves at Rome tomorrow at fifty-one minutes after fifteen o'clock."

I do not know about Italian time, but I judge it begins at midnight
and runs through the twenty-four hours without breaking bulk.
In the following ad, the theaters open at half-past twenty.
If these are not matinees, 20.30 must mean 8.30 P.M., by my reckoning.

Spettacolli del di 25

TEATRO DELLA PERGOLA--(Ore 20,30)--Opera. BOH`EME. TEATRO
ALFIERI.--Compagnia drammatica Drago--(Ore 20,30)--LA LEGGE.
ALHAMBRA--(Ore 20,30)--Spettacolo variato. SALA EDISON--
Grandiosoo spettacolo Cinematografico: QUO VADIS?--Inaugurazione della
Chiesa Russa--In coda al Direttissimo--Vedute di Firenze con
gran movimeno--America: Transporto tronchi giganteschi--I ladri
in casa del Diavolo--Scene comiche. CINEMATOGRAFO--Via Brunelleschi
n. 4.--Programma straordinario, DON CHISCIOTTE--Prezzi populari.

The whole of that is intelligible to me--and sane and rational, too--
except the remark about the Inauguration of a Russian Chinese.
That one oversizes my hand. Give me five cards.

This is a four-page paper; and as it is set in long primer leaded
and has a page of advertisements, there is no room for the crimes,
disasters, and general sweepings of the outside world--thanks be!
Today I find only a single importation of the off-color sort:

Una Principessa

che fugge con un cocchiere

PARIGI, 24.--Il MATIN ha da Berlino che la principessa
Schovenbare-Waldenbure scomparve il 9 novembre. Sarebbe partita
col suo cocchiere.

La Principassa ha 27 anni.

Twenty-seven years old, and scomparve--scampered--on the 9th November.
You see by the added detail that she departed with her coachman.
I hope Sarebbe has not made a mistake, but I am afraid the chances
are that she has. SONO DISPIACENTISSIMO.

There are several fires: also a couple of accidents. This is
one of them:

Grave disgrazia sul Ponte Vecchio

Stammattina, circe le 7,30, mentre Giuseppe Sciatti, di anni 55,
di Casellina e Torri, passava dal Ponte Vecchio, stando seduto sopra
un barroccio carico di verdura, perse l' equilibrio e cadde al suolo,
rimanendo con la gamba destra sotto una ruota del veicolo.

Lo Sciatti fu subito raccolto da alcuni cittadini, che, per mezzo
della pubblica vettura n. 365, lo transporto a San Giovanni di Dio.

Ivi il medico di guardia gli riscontro la frattura della gamba
destra e alcune lievi escoriazioni giudicandolo guaribile in 50
giorni salvo complicazioni.

What it seems to say is this: "Serious Disgrace on the Old
Old Bridge. This morning about 7.30, Mr. Joseph Sciatti, aged 55,
of Casellina and Torri, while standing up in a sitting posture
on top of a carico barrow of vedure (foliage? hay? vegetables?),
lost his equilibrium and fell on himself, arriving with his left
leg under one of the wheels of the vehicle.

"Said Sciatti was suddenly harvested (gathered in?) by several citizens,
who by means of public cab No. 365 transported to St. John of God."

Paragraph No. 3 is a little obscure, but I think it says that
the medico set the broken left leg--right enough, since there
was nothing the matter with the other one--and that several
are encouraged to hope that fifty days well fetch him around
in quite giudicandolo-guaribile way, if no complications intervene.

I am sure I hope so myself.

There is a great and peculiar charm about reading news-scraps in a
language which you are not acquainted with--the charm that always goes
with the mysterious and the uncertain. You can never be absolutely
sure of the meaning of anything you read in such circumstances;
you are chasing an alert and gamy riddle all the time, and the
baffling turns and dodges of the prey make the life of the hunt.
A dictionary would spoil it. Sometimes a single word of doubtful
purport will cast a veil of dreamy and golden uncertainty over a
whole paragraph of cold and practical certainties, and leave steeped
in a haunting and adorable mystery an incident which had been vulgar
and commonplace but for that benefaction. Would you be wise to draw
a dictionary on that gracious word? would you be properly grateful?

After a couple of days' rest I now come back to my subject and seek
a case in point. I find it without trouble, in the morning paper;
a cablegram from Chicago and Indiana by way of Paris. All the words
save one are guessable by a person ignorant of Italian:

Revolverate in teatro

PARIGI, 27.--La PATRIE ha da Chicago:

Il guardiano del teatro dell'opera di Walace (Indiana), avendo voluto
espellare uno spettatore che continuava a fumare malgrado il diviety,
questo spalleggiato dai suoi amici tir`o diversi colpi di rivoltella.
Il guardiano ripose. Nacque una scarica generale. Grande panico
tra gli spettatori. Nessun ferito.

TRANSLATION.--"Revolveration in Theater. PARIS, 27TH. LA PATRIE
has from Chicago: The cop of the theater of the opera of Wallace,
Indiana, had willed to expel a spectator which continued to smoke
in spite of the prohibition, who, spalleggiato by his friends,
tir'o (Fr. TIR'E, Anglice PULLED) manifold revolver-shots;
great panic among the spectators. Nobody hurt."

It is bettable that that harmless cataclysm in the theater of the opera
of Wallace, Indiana, excited not a person in Europe but me, and so
came near to not being worth cabling to Florence by way of France.
But it does excite me. It excites me because I cannot make out,
for sure, what it was that moved the spectator to resist the officer.
I was gliding along smoothly and without obstruction or accident,
until I came to that word "spalleggiato," then the bottom fell out.
You notice what a rich gloom, what a somber and pervading mystery,
that word sheds all over the whole Wallachian tragedy. That is the charm
of the thing, that is the delight of it. This is where you begin,
this is where you revel. You can guess and guess, and have all
the fun you like; you need not be afraid there will be an end to it;
none is possible, for no amount of guessing will ever furnish you
a meaning for that word that you can be sure is the right one.
All the other words give you hints, by their form, their sound,
or their spelling--this one doesn't, this one throws out no hints,
this one keeps its secret. If there is even the slightest slight
shadow of a hint anywhere, it lies in the very meagerly suggestive
fact that "spalleggiato" carries our word "egg" in its stomach.
Well, make the most out of it, and then where are you at?
You conjecture that the spectator which was smoking in spite
of the prohibition and become reprohibited by the guardians,
was "egged on" by his friends, and that was owing to that evil
influence that he initiated the revolveration in theater that has
galloped under the sea and come crashing through the European
press without exciting anybody but me. But are you sure,
are you dead sure, that that was the way of it? No. Then the
uncertainty remains, the mystery abides, and with it the charm.
Guess again.

If I had a phrase-book of a really satisfactory sort I would
study it, and not give all my free time to undictionarial readings,
but there is no such work on the market. The existing phrase-books
are inadequate. They are well enough as far as they go, but when
you fall down and skin your leg they don't tell you what to say.

***

ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR

I found that a person of large intelligence could read this beautiful
language with considerable facility without a dictionary, but I presently
found that to such a parson a grammar could be of use at times.
It is because, if he does not know the WERE'S and the WAS'S and the
MAYBE'S and the HAS-BEENS'S apart, confusions and uncertainties
can arise. He can get the idea that a thing is going to happen next
week when the truth is that it has already happened week before last.
Even more previously, sometimes. Examination and inquiry showed
me that the adjectives and such things were frank and fair-minded
and straightforward, and did not shuffle; it was the Verb that mixed
the hands, it was the Verb that lacked stability, it was the Verb that
had no permanent opinion about anything, it was the Verb that was always
dodging the issue and putting out the light and making all the trouble.

Further examination, further inquiry, further reflection,
confirmed this judgment, and established beyond peradventure the
fact that the Verb was the storm-center. This discovery made plain
the right and wise course to pursue in order to acquire certainty
and exactness in understanding the statements which the newspaper
was daily endeavoring to convey to me: I must catch a Verb and
tame it. I must find out its ways, I must spot its eccentricities,
I must penetrate its disguises, I must intelligently foresee and
forecast at least the commoner of the dodges it was likely to try
upon a stranger in given circumstances, I must get in on its main
shifts and head them off, I must learn its game and play the limit.

I had noticed, in other foreign languages, that verbs are bred
in families, and that the members of each family have certain features
or resemblances that are common to that family and distinguish it
from the other families--the other kin, the cousins and what not.
I had noticed that this family-mark is not usually the nose or the hair,
so to speak, but the tail--the Termination--and that these tails
are quite definitely differentiated; insomuch that an expert can
tell a Pluperfect from a Subjunctive by its tail as easily and as
certainly as a cowboy can tell a cow from a horse by the like process,
the result of observation and culture. I should explain that I
am speaking of legitimate verbs, those verbs which in the slang
of the grammar are called Regular. There are other--I am not meaning
to conceal this; others called Irregulars, born out of wedlock,
of unknown and uninteresting parentage, and naturally destitute
of family resemblances, as regards to all features, tails included.
But of these pathetic outcasts I have nothing to say. I do not
approve of them, I do not encourage them; I am prudishly delicate
and sensitive, and I do not allow them to be used in my presence.

But, as I have said, I decided to catch one of the others and break
it into harness. One is enough. Once familiar with its assortment
of tails, you are immune; after that, no regular verb can conceal
its specialty from you and make you think it is working the past
or the future or the conditional or the unconditional when it is
engaged in some other line of business--its tail will give it away.
I found out all these things by myself, without a teacher.

I selected the verb AMARE, TO LOVE. Not for any personal reason,
for I am indifferent about verbs; I care no more for one verb than
for another, and have little or no respect for any of them; but in
foreign languages you always begin with that one. Why, I don't know.
It is merely habit, I suppose; the first teacher chose it,
Adam was satisfied, and there hasn't been a successor since with
originality enough to start a fresh one. For they ARE a pretty
limited lot, you will admit that? Originality is not in their line;
they can't think up anything new, anything to freshen up the old
moss-grown dullness of the language lesson and put life and "go"
into it, and charm and grace and picturesqueness.

I knew I must look after those details myself; therefore I thought
them out and wrote them down, and set for the FACCHINO and explained
them to him, and said he must arrange a proper plant, and get together
a good stock company among the CONTADINI, and design the costumes,
and distribute the parts; and drill the troupe, and be ready in three
days to begin on this Verb in a shipshape and workman-like manner.
I told him to put each grand division of it under a foreman,
and each subdivision under a subordinate of the rank of sergeant
or corporal or something like that, and to have a different uniform
for each squad, so that I could tell a Pluperfect from a Compound
Future without looking at the book; the whole battery to be under
his own special and particular command, with the rank of Brigadier,
and I to pay the freight.

I then inquired into the character and possibilities of the selected verb,
and was much disturbed to find that it was over my size, it being
chambered for fifty-seven rounds--fifty-seven ways of saying I LOVE
without reloading; and yet none of them likely to convince a girl
that was laying for a title, or a title that was laying for rocks.

It seemed to me that with my inexperience it would be foolish to go
into action with this mitrailleuse, so I ordered it to the rear
and told the facchino to provide something a little more primitive
to start with, something less elaborate, some gentle old-fashioned
flint-lock, smooth-bore, double-barreled thing, calculated to cripple
at two hundred yards and kill at forty--an arrangement suitable for a
beginner who could be satisfied with moderate results on the offstart
and did not wish to take the whole territory in the first campaign.

But in vain. He was not able to mend the matter, all the verbs being
of the same build, all Gatlings, all of the same caliber and delivery,
fifty-seven to the volley, and fatal at a mile and a half.
But he said the auxiliary verb AVERE, TO HAVE, was a tidy thing,
and easy to handle in a seaway, and less likely to miss stays in
going about than some of the others; so, upon his recommendation I
chose that one, and told him to take it along and scrape its bottom
and break out its spinnaker and get it ready for business.

I will explain that a facchino is a general-utility domestic.
Mine was a horse-doctor in his better days, and a very good one.

At the end of three days the facchino-doctor-brigadier was ready.
I was also ready, with a stenographer. We were in a room called
the Rope-Walk. This is a formidably long room, as is indicated
by its facetious name, and is a good place for reviews. At 9:30
the F.-D.-B. took his place near me and gave the word of command;
the drums began to rumble and thunder, the head of the forces appeared
at an upper door, and the "march-past" was on. Down they filed,
a blaze of variegated color, each squad gaudy in a uniform of its own
and bearing a banner inscribed with its verbal rank and quality:
first the Present Tense in Mediterranean blue and old gold, then the
Past Definite in scarlet and black, then the Imperfect in green
and yellow, then the Indicative Future in the stars and stripes,
then the Old Red Sandstone Subjunctive in purple and silver--
and so on and so on, fifty-seven privates and twenty commissioned
and non-commissioned officers; certainly one of the most fiery and
dazzling and eloquent sights I have ever beheld. I could not keep back
the tears. Presently:

"Halt!" commanded the Brigadier.

"Front--face!"

"Right dress!"

"Stand at ease!"

"One--two--three. In unison--RECITE!"

It was fine. In one noble volume of sound of all the fifty-seven
Haves in the Italian language burst forth in an exalting
and splendid confusion. Then came commands:

"About--face! Eyes--front! Helm alee--hard aport! Forward--march!"
and the drums let go again.

When the last Termination had disappeared, the commander said
the instruction drill would now begin, and asked for suggestions.
I said:

"They say I HAVE, THOU HAST, HE HAS, and so on, but they don't say WHAT.
It will be better, and more definite, if they have something
to have; just an object, you know, a something--anything will do;
anything that will give the listener a sort of personal as well
as grammatical interest in their joys and complaints, you see."

He said:

"It is a good point. Would a dog do?"

I said I did not know, but we could try a dog and see. So he sent
out an aide-de-camp to give the order to add the dog.

The six privates of the Present Tense now filed in, in charge
of Sergeant AVERE (TO HAVE), and displaying their banner.
They formed in line of battle, and recited, one at a time, thus:

"IO HO UN CANE, I have a dog."

"TU HAI UN CANE, thou hast a dog."

"EGLI HA UN CANE, he has a dog."

"NOI ABBIAMO UN CANE, we have a dog."

"VOI AVETE UN CANE, you have a dog."

"EGLINO HANNO UN CANE, they have a dog."

No comment followed. They returned to camp, and I reflected a while.
The commander said:

"I fear you are disappointed."

"Yes," I said; "they are too monotonous, too singsong, to dead-and-alive;
they have no expression, no elocution. It isn't natural; it could
never happen in real life. A person who had just acquired a dog
is either blame' glad or blame' sorry. He is not on the fence.
I never saw a case. What the nation do you suppose is the matter
with these people?"

He thought maybe the trouble was with the dog. He said:

"These are CONTADINI, you know, and they have a prejudice against dogs--
that is, against marimane. Marimana dogs stand guard over people's
vines and olives, you know, and are very savage, and thereby a grief
and an inconvenience to persons who want other people's things
at night. In my judgment they have taken this dog for a marimana,
and have soured on him."

I saw that the dog was a mistake, and not functionable:
we must try something else; something, if possible, that could
evoke sentiment, interest, feeling.

"What is cat, in Italian?" I asked.

"Gatto."

"Is it a gentleman cat, or a lady?"

"Gentleman cat."

"How are these people as regards that animal?"

"We-ll, they--they--"

"You hesitate: that is enough. How are they about chickens?"

He tilted his eyes toward heaven in mute ecstasy. I understood.

"What is chicken, in Italian?" I asked.

"Pollo, PODERE." (Podere is Italian for master. It is a title
of courtesy, and conveys reverence and admiration.) "Pollo is one
chicken by itself; when there are enough present to constitute
a plural, it is POLLI."

"Very well, polli will do. Which squad is detailed for duty next?"

"The Past Definite."

"Send out and order it to the front--with chickens. And let them
understand that we don't want any more of this cold indifference."

He gave the order to an aide, adding, with a haunting tenderness
in his tone and a watering mouth in his aspect:

"Convey to them the conception that these are unprotected chickens."
He turned to me, saluting with his hand to his temple, and explained,
"It will inflame their interest in the poultry, sire."

A few minutes elapsed. Then the squad marched in and formed up,
their faces glowing with enthusiasm, and the file-leader shouted:

"EBBI POLLI, I had chickens!"

"Good!" I said. "Go on, the next."

"AVEST POLLI, thou hadst chickens!"

"Fine! Next!"

"EBBE POLLI, he had chickens!"

"Moltimoltissimo! Go on, the next!"

"AVEMMO POLLI, we had chickens!"

"Basta-basta aspettatto avanti--last man--CHARGE!"

"EBBERO POLLI, they had chickens!"

Then they formed in echelon, by columns of fours, refused the left,
and retired in great style on the double-quick. I was enchanted,
and said:

"Now, doctor, that is something LIKE! Chickens are the ticket,
there is no doubt about it. What is the next squad?"

"The Imperfect."

"How does it go?"

"IO AVENA, I had, TU AVEVI, thou hadst, EGLI AVENA, he had,
NOI AV--"

"Wait--we've just HAD the hads. What are you giving me?"

"But this is another breed."

"What do we want of another breed? Isn't one breed enough?
HAD is HAD, and your tricking it out in a fresh way of spelling
isn't going to make it any hadder than it was before; now you know
that yourself."

"But there is a distinction--they are not just the same Hads."

"How do you make it out?"

"Well, you use that first Had when you are referring to something
that happened at a named and sharp and perfectly definite moment;
you use the other when the thing happened at a vaguely defined time
and in a more prolonged and indefinitely continuous way."

"Why, doctor, it is pure nonsense; you know it yourself. Look here:
If I have had a had, or have wanted to have had a had, or was in a
position right then and there to have had a had that hadn't had any chance
to go out hadding on account of this foolish discrimination which lets
one Had go hadding in any kind of indefinite grammatical weather but
restricts the other one to definite and datable meteoric convulsions,
and keeps it pining around and watching the barometer all the time,
and liable to get sick through confinement and lack of exercise,
and all that sort of thing, why--why, the inhumanity of it is enough,
let alone the wanton superfluity and uselessness of any such a loafing
consumptive hospital-bird of a Had taking up room and cumbering
the place for nothing. These finical refinements revolt me;
it is not right, it is not honorable; it is constructive nepotism
to keep in office a Had that is so delicate it can't come out when
the wind's in the nor'west--I won't have this dude on the payroll.
Cancel his exequator; and look here--"

"But you miss the point. It is like this. You see--"

"Never mind explaining, I don't care anything about it. Six Hads
is enough for me; anybody that needs twelve, let him subscribe;
I don't want any stock in a Had Trust. Knock out the Prolonged
and Indefinitely Continuous; four-fifths of it is water, anyway."

"But I beg you, podere! It is often quite indispensable in cases where--"

"Pipe the next squad to the assault!"

But it was not to be; for at that moment the dull boom of the noon gun
floated up out of far-off Florence, followed by the usual softened
jangle of church-bells, Florentine and suburban, that bursts out in
murmurous response; by labor-union law the COLAZIONE [1] must stop;
stop promptly, stop instantly, stop definitely, like the chosen
and best of the breed of Hads.

- - -

1. Colazione is Italian for a collection, a meeting, a seance,
a sitting.--M.T.

***

A BURLESQUE BIOGRAPHY

Two or three persons having at different times intimated that if I
would write an autobiography they would read it when they got leisure,
I yield at last to this frenzied public demand and herewith tender
my history.

Ours is a noble house, and stretches a long way back into antiquity.
The earliest ancestor the Twains have any record of was a friend of
the family by the name of Higgins. This was in the eleventh century,
when our people were living in Aberdeen, county of Cork, England.
Why it is that our long line has ever since borne the maternal
name (except when one of them now and then took a playful
refuge in an alias to avert foolishness), instead of Higgins,
is a mystery which none of us has ever felt much desire to stir.
It is a kind of vague, pretty romance, and we leave it alone.
All the old families do that way.

Arthour Twain was a man of considerable note--a solicitor on the
highway in William Rufus's time. At about the age of thirty he went
to one of those fine old English places of resort called Newgate,
to see about something, and never returned again. While there he
died suddenly.

Augustus Twain seems to have made something of a stir about the
year 1160. He was as full of fun as he could be, and used to take his old
saber and sharpen it up, and get in a convenient place on a dark night,
and stick it through people as they went by, to see them jump.
He was a born humorist. But he got to going too far with it;
and the first time he was found stripping one of these parties,
the authorities removed one end of him, and put it up on a nice high
place on Temple Bar, where it could contemplate the people and have
a good time. He never liked any situation so much or stuck to it so long.

Then for the next two hundred years the family tree shows
a succession of soldiers--noble, high-spirited fellows,
who always went into battle singing, right behind the army,
and always went out a-whooping, right ahead of it.

This is a scathing rebuke to old dead Froissart's poor witticism
that our family tree never had but one limb to it, and that that
one stuck out at right angles, and bore fruit winter and summer.

Early in the fifteenth century we have Beau Twain, called "the Scholar."
He wrote a beautiful, beautiful hand. And he could imitate anybody's
hand so closely that it was enough to make a person laugh his head
off to see it. He had infinite sport with his talent. But by and
by he took a contract to break stone for a road, and the roughness
of the work spoiled his hand. Still, he enjoyed life all the time
he was in the stone business, which, with inconsiderable intervals,
was some forty-two years. In fact, he died in harness. During all
those long years he gave such satisfaction that he never was through
with one contract a week till the government gave him another. He was
a perfect pet. And he was always a favorite with his fellow-artists,
and was a conspicuous member of their benevolent secret society,
called the Chain Gang. He always wore his hair short, had a
preference for striped clothes, and died lamented by the government.
He was a sore loss to his country. For he was so regular.

Some years later we have the illustrious John Morgan Twain.
He came over to this country with Columbus in 1492 as a passenger.
He appears to have been of a crusty, uncomfortable disposition.
He complained of the food all the way over, and was always threatening
to go ashore unless there was a change. He wanted fresh shad.
Hardly a day passed over his head that he did not go idling about
the ship with his nose in the air, sneering about the commander,
and saying he did not believe Columbus knew where he was going
to or had ever been there before. The memorable cry of "Land ho!"
thrilled every heart in the ship but his. He gazed awhile through a
piece of smoked glass at the penciled line lying on the distant water,
and then said: "Land be hanged--it's a raft!"

When this questionable passenger came on board the ship, he brought
nothing with him but an old newspaper containing a handkerchief
marked "B. G.," one cotton sock marked "L. W. C.," one woolen one
marked "D. F.," and a night-shirt marked "O. M. R." And yet during
the voyage he worried more about his "trunk," and gave himself more
airs about it, than all the rest of the passengers put together.
If the ship was "down by the head," and would not steer, he would
go and move his "trunk" further aft, and then watch the effect.
If the ship was "by the stern," he would suggest to Columbus to detail
some men to "shift that baggage." In storms he had to be gagged,
because his wailings about his "trunk" made it impossible for the
men to hear the orders. The man does not appear to have been
openly charged with any gravely unbecoming thing, but it is noted
in the ship's log as a "curious circumstance" that albeit he brought
his baggage on board the ship in a newspaper, he took it ashore in
four trunks, a queensware crate, and a couple of champagne baskets.
But when he came back insinuating, in an insolent, swaggering way,
that some of this things were missing, and was going to search
the other passengers' baggage, it was too much, and they threw
him overboard. They watched long and wonderingly for him to
come up, but not even a bubble rose on the quietly ebbing tide.
But while every one was most absorbed in gazing over the side,
and the interest was momentarily increasing, it was observed with
consternation that the vessel was adrift and the anchor-cable hanging
limp from the bow. Then in the ship's dimmed and ancient log we
find this quaint note:

"In time it was discouvered yt ye troblesome passenger hadde gone
downe and got ye anchor, and toke ye same and solde it to ye dam
sauvages from ye interior, saying yt he hadde founde it, ye sonne
of a ghun!"

Yet this ancestor had good and noble instincts, and it is with
pride that we call to mind the fact that he was the first white
person who ever interested himself in the work of elevating
and civilizing our Indians. He built a commodious jail and put
up a gallows, and to his dying day he claimed with satisfaction
that he had had a more restraining and elevating influence on
the Indians than any other reformer that ever labored among them.
At this point the chronicle becomes less frank and chatty,
and closes abruptly by saying that the old voyager went to see
his gallows perform on the first white man ever hanged in America,
and while there received injuries which terminated in his death.

The great-grandson of the "Reformer" flourished in sixteen hundred
and something, and was known in our annals as "the old Admiral,"
though in history he had other titles. He was long in command of
fleets of swift vessels, well armed and manned, and did great service
in hurrying up merchantmen. Vessels which he followed and kept
his eagle eye on, always made good fair time across the ocean.
But if a ship still loitered in spite of all he could do,
his indignation would grow till he could contain himself no longer--
and then he would take that ship home where he lived and keep it
there carefully, expecting the owners to come for it, but they never did.
And he would try to get the idleness and sloth out of the sailors
of that ship by compelling them to take invigorating exercise and
a bath. He called it "walking a plank." All the pupils liked it.
At any rate, they never found any fault with it after trying it.
When the owners were late coming for their ships, the Admiral always
burned them, so that the insurance money should not be lost.
At last this fine old tar was cut down in the fullness of his years
and honors. And to her dying day, his poor heart-broken widow believed
that if he had been cut down fifteen minutes sooner he might have
been resuscitated.

Charles Henry Twain lived during the latter part of the seventeenth
century, and was a zealous and distinguished missionary.
He converted sixteen thousand South Sea islanders, and taught them
that a dog-tooth necklace and a pair of spectacles was not enough
clothing to come to divine service in. His poor flock loved
him very, very dearly; and when his funeral was over, they got up
in a body (and came out of the restaurant) with tears in their eyes,
and saying, one to another, that he was a good tender missionary,
and they wished they had some more of him.

Pah-go-to-wah-wah-pukketekeewis (Mighty-Hunter-with-a-Hog-Eye-Twain)
adorned the middle of the eighteenth century, and aided General
Braddock with all his heart to resist the oppressor Washington.
It was this ancestor who fired seventeen times at our Washington
from behind a tree. So far the beautiful romantic narrative
in the moral story-books is correct; but when that narrative goes
on to say that at the seventeenth round the awe-stricken savage
said solemnly that that man was being reserved by the Great Spirit
for some mighty mission, and he dared not lift his sacrilegious rifle
against him again, the narrative seriously impairs the integrity
of history. What he did say was:

"It ain't no (hic) no use. 'At man's so drunk he can't stan'
still long enough for a man to hit him. I (hic) I can't 'ford
to fool away any more am'nition on him."

That was why he stopped at the seventeenth round, and it was a good,
plain, matter-of-fact reason, too, and one that easily commends itself
to us by the eloquent, persuasive flavor of probability there is about it.

I also enjoyed the story-book narrative, but I felt a marring misgiving
that every Indian at Braddock's Defeat who fired at a soldier
a couple of times (two easily grows to seventeen in a century),
and missed him, jumped to the conclusion that the Great Spirit
was reserving that soldier for some grand mission; and so I somehow
feared that the only reason why Washington's case is remembered
and the others forgotten is, that in his the prophecy came true,
and in that of the others it didn't. There are not books enough
on earth to contain the record of the prophecies Indians and other
unauthorized parties have made; but one may carry in his overcoat
pockets the record of all the prophecies that have been fulfilled.

I will remark here, in passing, that certain ancestors of mine are
so thoroughly well-known in history by their aliases, that I have
not felt it to be worth while to dwell upon them, or even mention
them in the order of their birth. Among these may be mentioned
Richard Brinsley Twain, alias Guy Fawkes; John Wentworth Twain,
alias Sixteen-String Jack; William Hogarth Twain, alias Jack Sheppard;
Ananias Twain, alias Baron Munchausen; John George Twain,
alias Captain Kydd; and then there are George Francis Twain,
Tom Pepper, Nebuchadnezzar, and Baalam's Ass--they all belong
to our family, but to a branch of it somewhat distinctly removed
from the honorable direct line--in fact, a collateral branch,
whose members chiefly differ from the ancient stock in that, in order
to acquire the notoriety we have always yearned and hungered for,
they have got into a low way of going to jail instead of getting hanged.

It is not well, when writing an autobiography, to follow your ancestry
down too close to your own time--it is safest to speak only vaguely
of your great-grandfather, and then skip from there to yourself,
which I now do.

I was born without teeth--and there Richard III. had the advantage
of me; but I was born without a humpback, likewise, and there I
had the advantage of him. My parents were neither very poor nor
conspicuously honest.

But now a thought occurs to me. My own history would really seem
so tame contrasted with that of my ancestors, that it is simply wisdom
to leave it unwritten until I am hanged. If some other biographies I
have read had stopped with the ancestry until a like event occurred,
it would have been a felicitous thing for the reading public.
How does it strike you?

***

HOW TO TELL A STORY

The Humorous Story an American Development.--Its Difference

from Comic and Witty Stories

I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told.
I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been
almost daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for
many years.

There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--
the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story
is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French.
The humorous story depends for its effect upon the MANNER of the telling;
the comic story and the witty story upon the MATTER.

The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander
around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular;
but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point.
The humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.

The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art--
and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling
the comic and the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling
a humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--
was created in America, and has remained at home.

The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best
to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is
anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you
beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard,
then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh
when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success,
he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the "nub" of it
and glance around from face to face, collecting applause,
and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to see.

Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story
finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it.
Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will
divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual
and indifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it
is a nub.

Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience
presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise,
as if wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell
used it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it today.

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub;
he shouts it at you--every time. And when he prints it,
in England, France, Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it,
puts some whopping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes
explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing,
and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote
which has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen
hundred years. The teller tells it in this way:

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off
appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear,
informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained;
whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate,
proceeded to carry out his desire. The bullets and cannon-balls
were flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter
took the wounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer
being aware of it. In no long time he was hailed by an officer,
who said:

"Where are you going with that carcass?"

"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"

"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean
his head, you booby."

Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood
looking down upon it in great perplexity. At length he said:

"It is true, sir, just as you have said." Then after a pause he added,
"BUT HE TOLD ME IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!"

Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of
thunderous horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time
through his gasping and shriekings and suffocatings.

It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form;
and isn't worth the telling, after all. Put into the humorous-story
form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have
ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has
just heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny,
and is trying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it;
so he gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round,
putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only
retard it; taking them out conscientiously and putting in others
that are just as useless; making minor mistakes now and then
and stopping to correct them and explain how he came to make them;
remembering things which he forgot to put in in their proper place
and going back to put them in there; stopping his narrative a good
while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt,
and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned,
and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance, anyway--
better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential, after all--
and so on, and so on, and so on.

The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself,
and has to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep
from laughing outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes
in a jelly-like way with interior chuckles; and at the end of the
ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted,
and the tears are running down their faces.

The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness
of the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result
is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious.
This is art--and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it;
but a machine could tell the other story.

To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering
and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they
are absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position
is correct. Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third
is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it,
as if one where thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.

Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would
begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to
think was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently
absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way;
and that was the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.

For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man
in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation
would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he
would say dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could
beat a drum better than any man I ever saw."

The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story,
and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing,
and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must
be exactly the right length--no more and no less--or it fails
of its purpose and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the
impressive point is passed, and the audience have had time to divine
that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them,
of course.

On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause
in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important
thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely,
I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make
some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out
of her seat--and that was what I was after. This story was called
"The Golden Arm," and was told in this fashion. You can practice
with it yourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.

THE GOLDEN ARM

Once 'pon a time dey wuz a momsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de
prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died,
en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her.
Well, she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down.
He wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep,
caze he want dat golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up,
he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her
up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de 'win, en
plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he
stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take
a listening attitude) en say: "My LAN', what's dat?"

En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together
and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind),
"Bzzz-z-zzz"--en den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear
a VOICE!--he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly
tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"
(You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my! OH, my lan'!" en de win'
blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos'
choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead,
he so sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us
comin AFTER him! "Bzzz--zzz--zzz W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--ARM?"

When he git to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now,
en A-COMIN'!--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat
the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs
en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay da shiverin'
en shakin'--en den way out dah he hear it AGIN!--en a-COMIN'! En
bimeby he hear (pause--awed, listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat HIT'S
A-COMIN' UPSTAIRS! Den he hear de latch, en he KNOW it's in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it's a-STANNIN' BY DE BED! (Pause.) Den--
he know it's a-BENDIN' DOWN OVER HIM--en he cain't skasely git
his breath! Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n' C-O-L-D, right down
'most agin his head! (Pause.)

Den de voice say, RIGHT AT HIS YEAR--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n ARM?"
(You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare
steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor--
a girl, preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build
itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length,
jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "YOU'VE got it!")

If you've got the PAUSE right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and
spring right out of her shoes. But you MUST get the pause right;
and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and
uncertain thing you ever undertook.

***

GENERAL WASHINGTON'S NEGRO BODY-SERVANT

A Biographical Sketch

The stirring part of this celebrated colored man's life properly began
with his death--that is to say, the notable features of his biography
began with the first time he died. He had been little heard of up
to that time, but since then we have never ceased to hear of him;
we have never ceased to hear of him at stated, unfailing intervals.
His was a most remarkable career, and I have thought that its history
would make a valuable addition to our biographical literature.
Therefore, I have carefully collated the materials for such a work,
from authentic sources, and here present them to the public. I have
rigidly excluded from these pages everything of a doubtful character,
with the object in view of introducing my work into the schools
for the instruction of the youth of my country.

The name of the famous body-servant of General Washington was George.
After serving his illustrious master faithfully for half a century,
and enjoying throughout his long term his high regard and confidence,
it became his sorrowful duty at last to lay that beloved master
to rest in his peaceful grave by the Potomac. Ten years afterward--
in 1809--full of years and honors, he died himself, mourned by all
who knew him. The Boston GAZETTE of that date thus refers to
the event:

George, the favorite body-servant of the lamented Washington,
died in Richmond, Va., last Tuesday, at the ripe age of 95 years.
His intellect was unimpaired, and his memory tenacious, up to
within a few minutes of his decease. He was present at the second
installation of Washington as President, and also at his funeral,
and distinctly remembered all the prominent incidents connected with
those noted events.

From this period we hear no more of the favorite body-servant of
General Washington until May, 1825, at which time he died again.
A Philadelphia paper thus speaks of the sad occurrence:

At Macon, Ga., last week, a colored man named George, who was the
favorite body-servant of General Washington, died at the advanced
age of 95 years. Up to within a few hours of his dissolution he
was in full possession of all his faculties, and could distinctly
recollect the second installation of Washington, his death
and burial, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battle of Trenton,
the griefs and hardships of Valley Forge, etc. Deceased was
followed to the grave by the entire population of Macon.

On the Fourth of July, 1830, and also of 1834 and 1836, the subject
of this sketch was exhibited in great state upon the rostrum
of the orator of the day, and in November of 1840 he died again.
The St. Louis REPUBLICAN of the 25th of that month spoke as follows:

"ANOTHER RELIC OF THE REVOLUTION GONE.

"George, once the favorite body-servant of General Washington,
died yesterday at the house of Mr. John Leavenworth in this city,
at the venerable age of 95 years. He was in the full possession
of his faculties up to the hour of his death, and distinctly
recollected the first and second installations and death of
President Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles
of Trenton and Monmouth, the sufferings of the patriot army at
Valley Forge, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
the speech of Patrick Henry in the Virginia House of Delegates,
and many other old-time reminiscences of stirring interest.
Few white men die lamented as was this aged negro. The funeral
was very largely attended."

During the next ten or eleven years the subject of this sketch
appeared at intervals at Fourth-of-July celebrations in various
parts of the country, and was exhibited upon the rostrum with
flattering success. But in the fall of 1855 he died again.
The California papers thus speak of the event:

ANOTHER OLD HERO GONE

Died, at Dutch Flat, on the 7th of March, George (once the confidential
body-servant of General Washington), at the great age of 95 years.
His memory, which did not fail him till the last, was a wonderful
storehouse of interesting reminiscences. He could distinctly recollect
the first and second installations and death of President Washington,
the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles of Trenton and Monmouth,
and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the Declaration of Independence,
and Braddock's defeat. George was greatly respected in Dutch Flat,
and it is estimated that there were 10,000 people present at
his funeral.

The last time the subject of this sketch died was in June, 1864; and until
we learn the contrary, it is just to presume that he died permanently
this time. The Michigan papers thus refer to the sorrowful event:

ANOTHER CHERISHED REMNANT OF THE REVOLUTION GONE

George, a colored man, and once the favorite body-servant of
George Washington, died in Detroit last week, at the patriarchal age
of 95 years. To the moment of his death his intellect was unclouded,
and he could distinctly remember the first and second installations
and death of Washington, the surrender of Cornwallis, the battles
of Trenton and Monmouth, and Bunker Hill, the proclamation of the
Declaration of Independence, Braddock's defeat, the throwing over
of the tea in Boston harbor, and the landing of the Pilgrims.
He died greatly respected, and was followed to the grave by a vast
concourse of people.

The faithful old servant is gone! We shall never see him more until
he turns up again. He has closed his long and splendid career
of dissolution, for the present, and sleeps peacefully, as only they sleep
who have earned their rest. He was in all respects a remarkable man.
He held his age better than any celebrity that has figured in history;
and the longer he lived the stronger and longer his memory grew.
If he lives to die again, he will distinctly recollect the discovery
of America.

The above r'esum'e of his biography I believe to be substantially
correct, although it is possible that he may have died once or twice
in obscure places where the event failed of newspaper notoriety.
One fault I find in all the notices of his death I have quoted,
and this ought to be correct. In them he uniformly and impartially
died at the age of 95. This could not have been. He might have
done that once, or maybe twice, but he could not have continued
it indefinitely. Allowing that when he first died, he died at
the age of 95, he was 151 years old when he died last, in 1864.
But his age did not keep pace with his recollections. When he died
the last time, he distinctly remembered the landing of the Pilgrims,
which took place in 1620. He must have been about twenty years
old when he witnessed that event, wherefore it is safe to assert
that the body-servant of General Washington was in the neighborhood
of two hundred and sixty or seventy years old when he departed this
life finally.

Having waited a proper length of time, to see if the subject of his
sketch had gone from us reliably and irrevocably, I now publish his
biography with confidence, and respectfully offer it to a mourning nation.

P.S.--I see by the papers that this imfamous old fraud has just
died again, in Arkansas. This makes six times that he is known
to have died, and always in a new place. The death of Washington's
body-servant has ceased to be a novelty; it's charm is gone;
the people are tired of it; let it cease. This well-meaning
but misguided negro has not put six different communities to the
expense of burying him in state, and has swindled tens of thousands
of people into following him to the grave under the delusion that
a select and peculiar distinction was being conferred upon them.
Let him stay buried for good now; and let that newspaper suffer
the severest censure that shall ever, in all the future time,
publish to the world that General Washington's favorite colored
body-servant has died again.

***

WIT INSPIRATIONS OF THE "TWO-YEAR-OLDS"

All infants appear to have an impertinent and disagreeable fashion
nowadays of saying "smart" things on most occasions that offer,
and especially on occasions when they ought not to be saying anything
at all. Judging by the average published specimens of smart sayings,
the rising generation of children are little better than idiots.
And the parents must surely be but little better than the children,
for in most cases they are the publishers of the sunbursts of infantile
imbecility which dazzle us from the pages of our periodicals.
I may seem to speak with some heat, not to say a suspicion of
personal spite; and I do admit that it nettles me to hear about so
many gifted infants in these days, and remember that I seldom said
anything smart when I was a child. I tried it once or twice, but it
was not popular. The family were not expecting brilliant remarks
from me, and so they snubbed me sometimes and spanked me the rest.
But it makes my flesh creep and my blood run cold to think what might
have happened to me if I had dared to utter some of the smart things
of this generation's "four-year-olds" where my father could hear me.
To have simply skinned me alive and considered his duty at an end
would have seemed to him criminal leniency toward one so sinning.
He was a stern, unsmiling man, and hated all forms of precocity.
If I had said some of the things I have referred to, and said them in
his hearing, he would have destroyed me. He would, indeed. He would,
provided the opportunity remained with him. But it would not,
for I would have had judgment enough to take some strychnine first
and say my smart thing afterward. The fair record of my life has
been tarnished by just one pun. My father overheard that, and he
hunted me over four or five townships seeking to take my life.
If I had been full-grown, of course he would have been right;
but, child as I was, I could not know how wicked a thing I
had done.

I made one of those remarks ordinarily called "smart things"
before that, but it was not a pun. Still, it came near causing a
serious rupture between my father and myself. My father and mother,
my uncle Ephraim and his wife, and one or two others were present,
and the conversation turned on a name for me. I was lying there
trying some India-rubber rings of various patterns, and endeavoring
to make a selection, for I was tired of trying to cut my teeth on
people's fingers, and wanted to get hold of something that would
enable me to hurry the thing through and get something else.
Did you ever notice what a nuisance it was cutting your teeth on
your nurse's finger, or how back-breaking and tiresome it was trying
to cut them on your big toe? And did you never get out of patience
and wish your teeth were in Jerico long before you got them half cut?
To me it seems as if these things happened yesterday. And they did,
to some children. But I digress. I was lying there trying the
India-rubber rings. I remember looking at the clock and noticing
that in an hour and twenty-five minutes I would be two weeks old,
and thinking how little I had done to merit the blessings that were so
unsparingly lavished upon me. My father said:

"Abraham is a good name. My grandfather was named Abraham."

My mother said:

"Abraham is a good name. Very well. Let us have Abraham for one
of his names."

I said:

"Abraham suits the subscriber."

My father frowned, my mother looked pleased; my aunt said:

"What a little darling it is!"

My father said:

"Isaac is a good name, and Jacob is a good name."

My mother assented, and said:

"No names are better. Let us add Isaac and Jacob to his names."

I said:

"All right. Isaac and Jacob are good enough for yours truly.
Pass me that rattle, if you please. I can't chew India-rubber rings
all day."

Not a soul made a memorandum of these sayings of mine, for publication.
I saw that, and did it myself, else they would have been utterly lost.
So far from meeting with a generous encouragement like other children
when developing intellectually, I was now furiously scowled upon
by my father; my mother looked grieved and anxious, and even my aunt
had about her an expression of seeming to think that maybe I had
gone too far. I took a vicious bite out of an India-rubber ring,
and covertly broke the rattle over the kitten's head, but said nothing.
Presently my father said:

"Samuel is a very excellent name."

I saw that trouble was coming. Nothing could prevent it. I laid
down my rattle; over the side of the cradle I dropped my uncle's
silver watch, the clothes-brush, the toy dog, my tin soldier,
the nutmeg-grater, and other matters which I was accustomed to examine,
and meditate upon and make pleasant noises with, and bang and batter
and break when I needed wholesome entertainment. Then I put on my
little frock and my little bonnet, and took my pygmy shoes in one
hand and my licorice in the other, and climbed out on the floor.
I said to myself, Now, if the worse comes to worst, I am ready.
Then I said aloud, in a firm voice:

"Father, I cannot, cannot wear the name of Samuel."

"My son!"

"Father, I mean it. I cannot."

"Why?"

"Father, I have an invincible antipathy to that name."

"My son, this is unreasonable. Many great and good men have been
named Samuel."

"Sir, I have yet to hear of the first instance."

"What! There was Samuel the prophet. Was not he great and good?"

"Not so very."

"My son! With His own voice the Lord called him."

"Yes, sir, and had to call him a couple times before he could come!"

And then I sallied forth, and that stern old man sallied forth after me.
He overtook me at noon the following day, and when the interview was
over I had acquired the name of Samuel, and a thrashing, and other
useful information; and by means of this compromise my father's
wrath was appeased and a misunderstanding bridged over which might
have become a permanent rupture if I had chosen to be unreasonable.
But just judging by this episode, what would my father have done
to me if I had ever uttered in his hearing one of the flat,
sickly things these "two-years-olds" say in print nowadays?
In my opinion there would have been a case of infanticide in our family.

***

AN ENTERTAINING ARTICLE

I take the following paragraph from an article in the Boston ADVERTISER:

AN ENGLISH CRITIC ON MARK TWAIN

Perhaps the most successful flights of humor of Mark Twain have been
descriptions of the persons who did not appreciate his humor at all.
We have become familiar with the Californians who were thrilled with
terror by his burlesque of a newspaper reporter's way of telling a story,
and we have heard of the Pennsylvania clergyman who sadly returned
his INNOCENTS ABROAD to the book-agent with the remark that "the
man who could shed tears over the tomb of Adam must be an idiot."
But Mark Twain may now add a much more glorious instance to his string
of trophies. The SATURDAY REVIEW, in its number of October 8th,
reviews his book of travels, which has been republished in England,
and reviews it seriously. We can imagine the delight of the humorist
in reading this tribute to his power; and indeed it is so amusing
in itself that he can hardly do better than reproduce the article
in full in his next monthly Memoranda.

(Publishing the above paragraph thus, gives me a sort of authority
for reproducing the SATURDAY REVIEW'S article in full in these pages.
I dearly wanted to do it, for I cannot write anything half so
delicious myself. If I had a cast-iron dog that could read this
English criticism and preserve his austerity, I would drive him
off the door-step.)

(From the London "Saturday Review.")

REVIEWS OF NEW BOOKS

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD. A Book of Travels. By Mark Twain.
London: Hotten, publisher. 1870.

Lord Macaulay died too soon. We never felt this so deeply as when we
finished the last chapter of the above-named extravagant work.
Macaulay died too soon--for none but he could mete out complete
and comprehensive justice to the insolence, the impertinence,
the presumption, the mendacity, and, above all, the majestic ignorance
of this author.

To say that the INNOCENTS ABROAD is a curious book, would be to
use the faintest language--would be to speak of the Matterhorn
as a neat elevation or of Niagara as 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 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 following-described things--and not only doing them,
but with incredible innocence PRINTING THEM calmly and tranquilly
in a book. For instance:

He states that he entered a hair-dresser's in Paris to get shaved,
and the first "rake" the barber gave him with his razor it LOOSENED
HIS "HIDE" and LIFTED HIM OUT OF THE CHAIR.

This is unquestionably exaggerated. In Florence he was so annoyed

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