Chapter III (3)

“‘And you took the last cent that poor fellow had! Send him a hundred dollars, and if you can’t afford to stand your share, charge it all to me. I’m not going around robbing poor men who are disappointed in their calculations as to my commercial value. I’m poor, and working to pay debts that I never contracted; but I don’t want to get money in that way.’

“I sent the money, and was glad of the privilege of standing my share. The letter of acknowledgment from that man brought out the following expression from ‘Mark’: ‘I wish that every hundred dollars I ever invested had produced the same amount of happiness!’

“In Helena (August 3d) the people did not care for lectures. They all liked ‘Mark’ and enjoyed meeting him, but there was no public enthusiasm for the man that has made the early history of that mining country romantic and famous all over the world. The Montana Club entertained him grandly after the lecture, and he met many old friends and acquaintances. Some of them had come all the way from Virginia City to see their former comrade of the mining camps. One man, now very rich, came from Virginia City, Nevada, on purpose to see ‘Mark’ and settle an old score. When the glasses were filled and ‘Mark’s’ health proposed, this man interrupted the proceedings by saying:

“‘Hold on a minute; before we go further I want to say to you, Sam Clemens, that you did me a d----d dirty trick over there in Silver City, and I’ve come here to have a settlement with you.’

“There was a deathly silence for a moment, when ‘Mark’ said in his deliberate drawl:

“‘Let’s see. That--was--before--I--reformed, wasn’t--it?’

“Senator Sanders suggested that inasmuch as the other fellow had never reformed, Clemens and all the others present forgive him and drink together, which all did. Thus ‘the row was broken up before it commenced’ (_Buck Fenshaw_)--and all was well. ‘Mark’ told stories until after twelve. We walked from the club to the hotel up quite a mountain, the first hard walk he has had. He stands the light air well, and is getting strong.

* * * * *

“Sunday, August 4th, Helena.

“The dry burning sun makes life almost intolerable, so that there has been hardly a soul on the streets all day. ‘Mark’ and I had a good time at the Montana Club last night. He simply beats the world telling stories, but we find some bright lights here. There were present Senator Sanders, Major Maginnis, Hugh McQuade, A. J. Seligman, Judge Knowles, of the United States Supreme Court, who introduced Mr. Beecher in Deer Lodge and Butte in 1883; L. A. Walker, Dr. C. K. Cole, A. J. Steele, and Frank L. Sizer. We have very heavy mails, but are all too tired to open and read letters that are not absolutely necessary to be read.

“‘Mark’ lay around on the floor of his room all day reading and writing in his notebook and smoking. In the gloaming Dr. Cole, with his trotters, drove ‘Mark’ and Mrs. Clemens out to Broadwater, four miles. The heat gave way to a delicious balmy breeze that reinvigorated everybody. How delightful are these summer evenings in the Rocky Mountains!

* * * * *

“Monday, August 5th, Missoula, Montana.

“Senator Sanders walked with ‘Mark’ to the station in Helena this morning, while I accompanied the ladies in a carriage. Whom should we meet walking the platform of the station but Mrs. Henry Ward Beecher, on her way to visit her son Herbert in Port Townsend. It was a delightful surprise. Senator Sanders at once recognized her, as in 1883 he joined our party and drove from Helena (then the end of the eastern section of the Northern Pacific Railroad) to Missoula, the eastern end of the western division. We then drove in a carriage with four horses, via Butte and Deer Lodge, and it took four days to make the journey. Senator Sanders travelled the same distance in five hours with us to-day in a Pullman car.

“At Missoula we all drove in a ‘bus’ to the Florence House, the ladies inside and ‘Mark’ and I outside with the driver. Here we saw the first sign of the decadence of the horse: a man riding a bicycle alongside the bus, leading a horse to a nearby blacksmith shop. At ‘Mark’s’ suggestion I caught a snapshot of that scene. Officers from Fort Missoula, four miles out, had driven in with ambulances and an invitation from Lieutenant-Colonel Burt, commandant, for our entire party to dine at the fort. The ladies accepted. ‘Mark’ went to bed and I looked after the business.

“We had a large audience in a small hall, the patrons being mainly officers of the fort and their families. As most of the ladies who marry army officers come from our best Eastern society, it was a gathering of people who appreciated the occasion. After the lecture, the meeting took the form of a social reception, and it was midnight before it broke up. The day has been one of delight to all of us. As we leave at 2:30 P.M. to-morrow, all have accepted an invitation to witness guard-mounting and lunch early at the fort.

* * * * *

“August 7th.

“Two ambulances were sent to the hotel for our party and Adjutant-General Ruggles, who is here on a tour of inspection. ‘Mark’ rose early and said he would walk to the fort slowly; he thought it would do him good. General Ruggles and the ladies went in one ambulance (the old four-mule army officers’ ambulance) and the other waited some little time before starting, that I might complete arrangements for all the party to go direct from the fort to the depot. I was the only passenger riding with the driver, and enjoying the memory of like experiences on the plains when in the army. We were about half way to the fort when I discovered a man walking hurriedly toward us quite a distance to the left. I was sure it was ‘Mark,’ and asked the driver to slow up. In a minute I saw him signal us, and I asked the driver to turn and drive toward him. We were on a level plain, and through that clear mountain atmosphere one can see a great distance. We were not long in reaching our man, much to his relief. He had walked out alone and taken the wrong road, and after walking five or six miles on it, discovered his mistake, and was countermarching when he saw our ambulance and ran across lots to meet us. He _was_ tired--too tired to express disgust--and sat quietly inside the ambulance until we drove up to headquarters, where were a number of officers and ladies, besides our party. As ‘Mark’ stepped out, a colored sergeant laid hands on him, saying:

“‘Are you ‘Mark Twain’?

“‘I am,’ he replied.

“‘I have orders to arrest and take you to the guardhouse.’

“‘All right.’

“And the sergeant walked him across the parade ground to the guardhouse, he not uttering a word of protest.

“Immediately Lieutenant-Colonel Burt and the ambulance hurried over to relieve the prisoner. Colonel Burt very pleasantly asked ‘Mark’s’ pardon for the practical joke and invited him to ride back to headquarters. ‘Mark’ said:

“Thanks, I prefer freedom, if you don’t mind. I’ll walk. I see you have thorough discipline here,’ casting an approving eye toward the sergeant who had him under arrest.

“The garrison consisted of seven companies of the Twenty-seventh United States Colored Regiment. There was a military band of thirty pieces. Guard mount was delayed for General Ruggles’ and our inspection. The band played quite a programme, and all declared it one of the finest military bands in America. We witnessed some fine drilling of the soldiers, and learned that for this kind of service the colored soldiers were more subordinate and submissive to rigid drill and discipline than white men, and that there were very few desertions from among them.

“Attached to our train from Missoula station were two special cars, bearing an excursion party consisting of the new receiver of the Northern Pacific Railroad and his friends, one of whom we were told was the United States Supreme Court Judge who had appointed this receiver. An invitation was sent in to ‘Mark’ to ride in their car, but as it came for him alone and did not include the ladies, he declined.

“It was an enjoyable ride to Spokane, where we arrived at 11:30, and put up at the Spokane House, the largest hotel I ever saw. It was a large commercial building, covering an entire block, revamped into a hotel. A whole store was diverted into one bedroom, and nicely furnished, too. Reporters were in waiting to interview the distinguished guest. ‘Mark’ is gaining strength and is enjoying everything, so the interviewers had a good time.

“We spent all day, August 8th, in Spokane. The hotel was full. The new receiver and his gay party are also spending the day here, but all leave just before the time set for the lecture.

“In the forenoon ‘Mark’ and I walked about this remarkable city, with its asphalt streets, electric lights, nine-story telegraph poles, and commercial blocks that would do credit to any Eastern city. There were buildings ten stories high, with the nine top stories empty, and there were many fine stores with great plate-glass fronts, marked ‘To Rent.’ In the afternoon our entire party drove about the city in an open carriage. Our driver pointed out some beautiful suburban residences and told us who occupied them.

“‘That house,’ he said, as we drove by a palatial establishment, ‘is where Mr. Brown lives. He is receiver for the Spokane Bank, which failed last year for over $2,000,000. You all know about that big failure, of course. The receiver lives there.’

“Pointing out another house, he said: ‘That man living up in that big house is receiver for the Great Falls Company. It failed for nearly a million. The president and directors of that company are most all in the State prison. And this yere house that we are coming to now is where the receiver of the Washington Gas and Water Company lives,’ etc.

“‘Mark’ said to the ladies: ‘If I had a son to send West, I would educate him for a receiver. It seems to be about the only thriving industry.’

“We found here a magnificent new theatre--the Opera House. It has cost over $200,000 and was never yet a quarter filled. The manager was greatly disappointed at the receipts for the lecture; he had counted on a full house. Where he expected the people to come from I don’t know. The receipts were not much better than in Missoula. ‘Mark’ didn’t enjoy it, and manifested no delicacy in so expressing himself.

“As we have a day here, the ladies have overhauled and repacked their trunks. I think there is no occupation that has the fascination for women when travelling as the unpacking and overhauling of large travelling trunks. They go at it early, miss their luncheon, and are late to dinner, and yet show no signs of fatigue.

“There was another incident here. Our ladies dressed their best for dinner, and outshone the receiver’s excursionists, who occupied most of the great dining hall. ‘Mark’ didn’t see it, as he never comes down to dinner. I know I saw it, and enjoyed a feeling of pride. I just felt and knew I was envied by the men at the other tables. Clara Clemens is a beautiful girl. As we passed out of the dining room into the great parlor, she sat down to the Chickering grand piano and began playing a Chopin nocturne. It was in the gloaming. Stealthily guests came in from dinner and sat breathlessly in remote parts of the boundless room listening to a performance that would have done credit to any great pianist. Never have I witnessed a more beautiful sight than this sweet brunette unconsciously holding a large audience of charmed listeners. If it was not one of the supreme moments of her mother’s life, who saw and heard her, then I have guessed wrong. It was an incident forever fixed in my memory.

“That night at 11:30 we went aboard the sleeper on the Great Northern Road. Everything was in readiness for us. The next day was one full of interest as we rode over the Rockies on the zigzag road, travelling over thirty miles to make seven. ‘Mark’ rode on the engine, greatly to the delight of the engineer.

“We transferred at Seattle to the little ‘Greyhound of Puget Sound’--_The Flyer_--said to be the fastest steamer in the world. ‘Mark’ sat on the deck of _The Flyer_ watching the baggage-smashers removing our trunks from the baggage car to the truck which was to convey them to _The Flyer_, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, how I do wish one of those trunks were filled with dynamite and that all the baggage-destroyers on earth were gathered about it, and I just far enough off to see them hurled into Kingdom Come!’

“We arrived in Tacoma at five o’clock, and have sumptuous apartments at The Tacoma, a grand caravansery built by the Northern Pacific Railroad Company. The ‘receiver’ is an old friend of mine, formerly a contractor on the Northern Pacific Railroad. I also found another old friend in C. H. Prescott--one of the prosperous. He is local ‘receiver’ of the Northern Pacific Railroad, the highest distinction a man can attain out here. This is another overgrown metropolis. We can’t see it, nor anything else, owing to the dense smoke everywhere.

“Here in Tacoma the ladies are to remain and rest, while ‘Mark’ and I take in Portland and Olympia.

* * * * *

“Friday, August 9th, Portland, Oregon.

“At Tacoma early this morning Mr. S. E. Moffett, of the San Francisco _Examiner_, appeared. He is ‘Mark’s’ nephew and resembles his uncle very much. On his arrival ‘Mark’ took occasion to blaspheme for a few minutes, that his relative might realize that men are not all alike. He cursed the journey, the fatigues and annoyances, winding up by acknowledging that if everything had been made and arranged by the Almighty for the occasion, it could not have been better or more comfortable, but he ‘was not travelling for pleasure,’ etc.

“He and I reached Portland on time, 8:22, and found the Marquam Grand packed with a waiting audience and the sign ‘Standing Room Only’ out. The lecture was a grand success. After it ‘Mark’s’ friend, Colonel Wood, formerly of the United States army, gave a supper at the Portland Club, where about two dozen of the leading men were entertained for two hours with ‘Mark’s’ story-telling. They will remember that evening as long as they live. There is surely but one ‘Mark Twain.’

* * * * *

“Saturday, August 10th, Portland to Olympia.

“Smoke, smoke, smoke! It was not easy to tear ourselves away from Portland so early. _The Oregonian_ contains one of the best notices that ‘Mark’ has had. He is pleased with it, and is very jolly to-day.

“We left for Olympia at eleven o’clock, via Northern Pacific Railroad. Somehow ‘Mark’ seems to grow greater from day to day. Each time it seemed as though his entertainment had reached perfection, but last night surpassed all. A gentleman on the train, a physician from Portland, said that no man ever left a better impression on a Portland audience; that ‘Mark Twain’ was the theme on the streets and in all business places. A young reporter for _The Oregonian_ met ‘Mark’ as he was boarding the train for Olympia, and had probably five minutes’ talk with him. He wrote a two-column interview which ‘Mark’ declared was the most accurate and the best that had ever been reported of him.

“On the train a bevy of young ladies ventured to introduce themselves to him, and he entertained them all the way to Olympia, where a delegation of leading citizens met us, headed by John Miller Murphy, editor of the oldest paper in Washington. They met us outside the city, in order that we might enjoy a ride on a new trolley car through the town. As ‘Mark’ stepped from the train, Mr. Miller said:

“‘Mr. Twain, as chairman of the reception committee, allow me to welcome you to the capital of the youngest and most picturesque State in the Union. I am sorry the smoke is so dense that you cannot see our mountains and our forests, which are now on fire.’

“‘Mark’ said: ‘I regret to see--I mean to learn (I can’t see, of course, for the smoke) that your magnificent forests are being destroyed by fire. As for the smoke, I do not so much mind. I am accustomed to that. I am a perpetual smoker myself.’

* * * * *

“Monday, August 12th, Tacoma, Wash.--The Tacoma.

“I had trouble in settling at the Opera House; the manager is a scamp. I expected trouble, and I had it.

“The Tacoma Press Club gave ‘Mark’ a reception in their rooms after the lecture, which proved to be a very bright affair. ‘Mark’ is finding out that he has found his friends by the loss of his fortune. People are constantly meeting him on the street, at halls, and in hotels, and telling him of the happiness he has brought them--old and young alike. He seems as fresh to the rising generation as he is dear to older friends. Here we met Lieutenant-Commander Wadhams, who is executive officer of the _Mohican_, now in Seattle harbor. He has invited us all on board the man-of-war to dine to-morrow, and we have all accepted.

“‘Mark’ had a great audience in Seattle the next evening. The sign ‘Standing Room Only’ was out again. He was hoarse, but the hoarseness seemed to augment the volume of his voice. After the lecture he met many of his friends and admirers at the Rainier Club. Surely he _is_ finding out that his misfortunes are his blessings. He has been the means of more real pleasure to his readers and hearers than he ever could have imagined had not this opportunity presented itself.

* * * * *

“Wednesday, August 14th, Seattle to Whatcom.

“Mark’s’ cold is getting worse (the first cold he ever had). He worried and fretted all day; two swearing fits under his breath, with a short interval between them, they lasted from our arrival in town until he went to sleep after midnight. It was with great difficulty that he got through the lecture. The crowd, which kept stringing in at long intervals until half-past nine, made him so nervous that he left the stage for a time. I thought he was ill, and rushed back of the scenes, only to meet him in a white rage. He looked daggers at me, and remarked:

“‘You’ll never play a trick like this on me again. Look at that audience. It isn’t half in yet.’

“I explained that many of the people came from long distances, and that the cars ran only every half hour, the entire country on fire causing delays, and that was why the last instalment came so late. He cooled down and went at it again. He captured the crowd. He had a good time and an encore, and was obliged to give an additional story.

* * * * *

“Thursday, August 15th, Vancouver, B.C.--The Vancouver.

“‘Mark’s’ throat is in a very bad condition. It was a great effort to make himself heard. He is a thoroughbred--a great man, with wonderful will power, or he would have succumbed. We had a fine audience, a crowded house, very English, and I think ‘Mark’ liked it. Everything here is English and Canadian. There is a rumor afloat that the country about us is beautiful, but we can’t see it, for there is smoke, smoke everywhere, and no relief. My eyes are sore from it. We are told that the _Warrimoo_ will not sail until Wednesday, so I have arranged for the Victoria lecture Tuesday.

* * * * *

“Friday, August 16th, Vancouver.

“Our tour across the continent is virtually finished, and I feel the reaction. ‘Othello’s occupation gone.’ This morning ‘Mark’ had a doctor, who says he is not seriously ill. Mrs. Clemens is curing him. The more I see of this lady the greater and more wonderful she appears to be. There are few women who could manage and absolutely rule such a nature as ‘Mark’s.’ She knows the gentle and smooth way over every obstruction he meets, and makes everything lovely. This has indeed been the most delightful tour I have ever made with any party, and I wish to record it as one of the most enjoyable of all my managerial experiences. I hardly ever expect another. ‘Mark’ has written in a presentation copy of ‘Roughing It’:

“‘Here ends one of the smoothest and pleasantest trips across the continent that any group of five has ever made.’

“‘Mark’ is better this evening, so we shall surely have a good lecture in Victoria.

* * * * *

“Saturday, August 17th, Vancouver.

“We are all waiting for the news as to when the _Warrimoo_ will be off the dry dock and ready to sail. ‘Mark’ is getting better. I have booked Victoria for Tuesday, the 20th.

“‘Mark’ has lain in bed all day, as usual, spending much time writing. Reporters have been anxious to meet and interview him, and I urged it. He finally said: ‘If they’ll excuse my bed, show them up.’ A quartet of bright young English journalists came up. They all had a good time, and made much of the last interview with ‘Mark Twain’ in America, as it was. ‘Mark’ was in excellent spirits. His throat is better.

* * * * *

“Monday, August 19th.

“We are at Vancouver still, and the smoke is as firmly fixed as we are in the town. It is bad. ‘Mark’ has not been very cheerful to-day. He doesn’t get his voice back. He and I took a walk about the streets, and he seemed discouraged, I think on account of Mrs. Clemens’s dread of the long voyage, and because of the unfavorable stories we have heard of the _Warrimoo_. We leave Vancouver, and hosts of new friends, for Victoria, B.C., and then we part. That will not be easy, for we are all very happy. It makes my heart ache to see ‘Mark’ so downhearted after such continued success as he has had.

“On August 20th the boat for Victoria arrived half an hour late. We all hurried to get on board, only to be told by the captain that he had one hundred and eighty tons of freight to discharge, and that it would be four o’clock before we left. This lost our Victoria engagement, which I was obliged to postpone by telegraph. ‘Mark’ was not in condition to relish this news, and as he stood on the wharf after the ladies had gone aboard he took occasion to tell the captain, in very plain and unpious language, his opinion of a passenger-carrying company that, for a few dollars extra, would violate their contract and obligations to the public. They were a lot of ---- somethings, and deserved the penitentiary. The captain listened without response, but got very red in the face. It seems the ladies had overheard the loud talk. Soon after ‘Mark’ joined them he came to me and asked if I wouldn’t see that captain and apologize for his unmanly abuse, and see if any possible restitution could be made. I did so, and the captain and ‘Mark’ became quite friends.

“We left Vancouver on _The Charmer_ at six o’clock, arriving in Victoria a little after midnight.

* * * * *

“Wednesday, August 21st, Victoria, B.C.--The Driad.

“‘Mark’ has been in bed all day; he doesn’t seem to get strength. He smokes constantly, and I fear too much also; still, he may stand it. Physicians say it will eventually kill him.

“We had a good audience. Lord and Lady Aberdeen, who were in a box, came back on the stage after the lecture and said many very nice things of the entertainment, offering to write to friends-in Australia about it. ‘Mark’s’ voice began strong, but showed fatigue toward the last. His audience, which was one of the most appreciative he ever had, was in great sympathy with him as they realized the effort he was obliged to make, owing to his hoarseness.

“A telegram from Mr. George McL. Brown says the _Warrimoo_ will sail at six o’clock to-morrow evening. This is the last appearance of ‘Mark Twain’ in America for more than a year I know, and I much fear the very last, for it doesn’t seem possible that his physical strength can hold out. After the lecture to-night he expected to visit a club with Mr. Campbell, who did not come around. He and I, therefore, went out for a walk. He was tired and feeble, but did not want to go back to the hotel. He was nervous and weak, and disappointed, for he had expected to meet and entertain a lot of gentlemen. He and I are alike in one respect: we don’t relish disappointment.

* * * * *

“Thursday, August 22d.

“We are in Victoria yet. The blessed ‘tie that binds’ seems to be drawing tighter and tighter as the time for our final separation approaches. We shall never be happier in any combination, and Mrs. Clemens is the great magnet. What a noble woman she is! It is ‘Mark Twain’s’ wife who makes his works so great. She edits everything and brings purity, dignity, and sweetness to his writings. In ‘Joan of Arc’ I see Mrs. Clemens as much as ‘Mark Twain.’

* * * * *

“Friday, August 23d, Victoria.

“‘Mark’ and I were out all day getting books, cigars, and tobacco. He bought three thousand Manilla cheroots, thinking that with four pounds of Durham smoking tobacco he could make the three thousand cheroots last four weeks. If perpetual smoking ever kills a man, I don’t see how ‘Mark Twain’ can expect to escape. He and Mrs. Clemens, an old friend of ‘Mark’s’ and his wife, now living near here, went for a drive, and were out most of the day. This is remarkable for him. I never knew him to do such a thing before.

“The _Warrimoo_ arrived about one o’clock. We all went on board and lunched together for the last time. Mrs. Clemens is disappointed in the ship. The whole thing looks discouraging, and our hearts are almost broken with sympathy for her. She tells me she is going to brave it through, for she must do it. It is for her children. Our party got out on the deck of the _Warrimoo_, and Mr. W. G. Chase, a passenger, took a snapshot of our quintette. Then wife and I went ashore, and the old ship started across the Pacific Ocean with three of our most beloved friends on board. We waved to one another as long as they kept in sight.

“Before sailing ‘Mark Twain’ wrote a letter to the editor of the San Francisco _Examiner_, from which I quote:

“‘Now that I reflect, perhaps it is a little immodest in me to talk about my paying my debts, when by my own confession I am blandly getting ready to unload them on the whole English-speaking world. I didn’t think of that--well, no matter, so long as they are paid.

“‘Lecturing is gymnastics, chest-expander, medicine, mind healer, blues destroyer, all in one. I am twice as well as I was when I started out. I have gained nine pounds in twenty-eight days, and expect to weigh six hundred before January. I haven’t had a blue day in all the twenty-eight. My wife and daughter are accumulating health and strength and flesh nearly as fast as I am. When we reach home two years hence, we think we can exhibit as freaks.

“‘MARK TWAIN.

“‘Vancouver, B.C., August 15, 1895.”

* * * * *

On September 17, 1897, he wrote me from Weggis, Lake Lucerne:

“I feel quite sure that in Cape Town, thirteen months ago, I stood on a platform for the last time. Nothing but the Webster debts could persuade me to lecture again, and I have ceased to worry about those. You remember in the Sam Moffett interview in Vancouver, in 1895, I gave myself four years in which to make money enough to pay those debts--and that included two lecture seasons in America, one in England, and one around the world. But we are well satisfied now that we shall have those debts paid off a year earlier than the prophecy, if I continue able to work as I have been working in London and here, _and without any further help from the platform_. And so it is, as I said a moment ago, I am a cheerful man these days.”

In another letter he said: “I managed to pull through that long lecture campaign, but I was never very well, from the first night in Cleveland to the last one in Cape Town, and I found it pretty hard work on that account. I did a good deal of talking when I ought to have been in bed. At present I am not strong enough for platform work, and am not going to allow myself to think of London, or any other platform, for a long time to come. It grieves me, for I could make a satisfactory season in London and America now that I am practised in my trade again.”

On April 4, 1899, he wrote me from Vienna: “No; I don’t like lecturing. I lectured in Vienna two or three weeks ago, and in Budapest last week, but it was merely for fun, not for money. I charged nothing in Vienna, and only the family’s expenses in Budapest. I like to talk for nothing, about twice a year; but talking for money is _work_, and that takes the pleasure out of it. I do not believe you could offer me terms that would dissolve my prejudice against the platform. I do not expect to see a platform again until the wolf commands. Honest people do not go robbing the public on the platform, except when they are in debt. (Disseminate this idea; it can do good).”

In the autumn of 1895 I wanted him to give fifty lectures in England, but he thought it would not be worth his while. His book was the next thing to be thought of and planned for. Four years later, while he was in Sweden, I again suggested lecturing at a thousand dollars a night. “I think there’s stuff in ‘Following the Equator’ for a lecture, but I can’t come,” he wrote.

As a letter writer “Mark Twain” is inimitable. He writes with the same unconventionally with which he talks, and his letters are the man.

* * * * *

“DEAR POND:

“O, b’gosh, I can’t. I hate writing.

“Ever thine,

“‘MARK.’”

* * * * *

is characteristic. He is always humorous. Once he arranged for a donkey to be sent to the Elmira summer home for one of the children to ride. He acknowledged the receipt: “Much obliged, Homer, for the jackass. Tell Redpath I shall not want him now.” Of course the latter reference was to a business matter, but the conjunction was irresistible. In the autumn of 1899 he wrote to me: “I’m not going to barnstorm the platform any more, but I am glad you have corralled Howells. He’s a most sinful man, and I always knew God would send him to the platform if he didn’t behave.”

In another letter he writes: “Say! Some time ago I received notice that I had been elected honorary member of the ‘Society of Sons of Steerage Immigrants,’ and was told that Kipling, Hop Smith, and Nelson Page are officers of it. What right have they to belong? Ask Page or Smith about it.”

But it is not always fun. His business letters are clear and straightforward. He understood how to deal with his audiences and to meet requirements with the utmost honesty. But his “nerves” were readily worn out on the surface, and one of his horrors was delay in beginning and the late comers who always interrupt. He devised small programmes, printed on stiff card paper, so that they could neither be used as fans nor rustle, which is so annoying to a person on the platform. He and Cable were always friends, but the novelist never could resist the temptation to lengthen the reading of his selections, and this made a constant friction, because it necessarily curtailed the time left for “Mark,” sensitive ever to the obligation he felt to the audiences.

Throughout the scores of letters in my possession there are constant and charming references to his wife and children, unpremeditated in expression, and therefore the more valuable. His hospitable spirit is also as fully exhibited. He has the keenest sense of personal honor, as well as of his own rights.

I had received a letter from the Secretary of War notifying me that by order of the President a Congressional medal of honor had been presented to me for “most distinguished gallantry in action”--gallantry thirty-seven years ago. I was so proud that I wrote Mark about it. He wrote me from Austria, June 17, 1898, in reply:

* * * * *

“Keltenburgeben.

“DEAR POND: My, it’s a long jump from the time you played solitaire with your cannon! Yes, I should think you would want to go soldiering again. Old as I am, I want to go to the war myself. And I should do it, too, if it were not for the danger.

“To-day we ought to get great news from Cuba. I am watching for the Vienna evening papers. This is a good war with a dignified cause to fight for. A thing not to be said of the average war.”

* * * * *

“Mark Twain” eats only when he is hungry. I have known him to go days without eating a particle of food; at the same time he would be smoking constantly when he was not sleeping. He insisted that the stomach would call when in need, and it did. I have known him to sit for hours in a smoking car on a cold day, smoking his pipe and reading his German book with the window wide open. I said once: “Mark, do you know it’s a cold day and you are exposing yourself before that open window, and you are booked to lecture to-night?”

“I do--know--all--about it. I am letting some of God’s fresh air into my lungs for that purpose. My stomach is all right, and under these conditions I am not afraid of taking cold.”

“But,” said I, “the car is cold, and you are making the passengers uncomfortable by insisting on that window being wide open.”

“They deserve to be uncomfortable for not knowing how to live and take care of themselves.” He closed the window, however.

“Mark” seldom had a cold, and with the exception of carbuncles was never ill.

“Pudd’n Head Wilson” was first acted by Frank Mayo, of whom “Mark’s” appreciation was very sincere. While seeing the play for the first time, at the Herald Square Theatre, the audience discovered “Mark” in a box, and vociferously called: “Mark Twain! Mark Twain!” He rose up and said:

“I am sure I could say many complimentary things about this play which Mr. Mayo has written and about his portrayal of the chief character in it, and keep well within the bounds both of fact and of good taste; but I will limit myself to two or three. I do not know how to utter any higher praise than this: that when Mayo’s ‘Pudd’n Head’ walks this stage here, clothed in the charm of his gentle charities of speech, and acts the sweet simplicities and sincerities of his gracious nature, the thought in my mind is: ‘Why, bless your heart, you couldn’t be any dearer or lovelier or sweeter than you are without turning into that man whom all men love, and even Satan is fond of--Joe Jefferson.’”

In May, 1895, he wrote to me from Paris: “Frank Mayo has done a great thing for both of us; for he has proved himself a gifted dramatist as well as a gifted orator, and has enabled me to add another new character to American drama. I hope he will have grand success.”

The serious side of “Mark Twain” is shown in the following letter to a woman whose sister wished to go upon the lecture platform; this letter went the rounds of the press years ago, but it should be kept alive. I reproduce it, as it points a moral:

“I have seen it tried many and many a time. I have seen a lady lecturer urged upon the public in a lavishly complimentary document signed by Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, and some others of supreme celebrity, but--there was nothing in her, and she failed. If there had been any great merit in her, she never would have needed those men’s help; and (at her rather mature age) would never have consented to ask it.

“There is an unwritten law about human successes, and your sister must bow to that law. She must submit to its requirements. In brief, this law is:

“1. No occupation without an apprenticeship.

“2. No pay to the apprentice.

“This law stands right in the way of the subaltern who wants to be a general before he has smelt powder; and it stands (and should stand) in everybody’s way who applies for pay and position before he has served his apprenticeship and proved himself.

“Your sister’s course is perfectly plain. Let her enclose this letter to Major J. B. Pond, Everett House, New York, and offer to lecture a year for $10 a week and her expenses, the contract to be annullable by him at any time after a month’s notice, but not annullable by her at all; the second year, he to have her services, if he wants them, at a trifle under the best price offered by anybody else.

“She can learn her trade in those two years, and then be entitled to remuneration; but she cannot learn it in any less time than that, unless she is a human miracle.

“Try it, and do not be afraid. It is the fair and right thing. If she wins, she will win squarely and righteously, and never have to blush.”

No man has ever written whose humor has so many sides, or such breadth and reach. His passages provoke the joyous laughter of young and old, of learned and unlearned, and may be read the hundredth time without losing, but rather multiplying, in power. Sentences and phrases that seem at first made only for the heartiest laughter, yield at closer view a sanity and wisdom that are good for the soul. He is also a wonderful story-teller. Thousands of people can bear testimony that the very humor which has made him known all over the world is oftentimes swept along like the débris of a freshet by the current of his fascinating narrative. His later works, like “The Yankee at King Arthur’s Court” and “Joan of Arc,” show that he has studied and apprehends also the great problems of modern life as well as those of history. Mark is personally as human as his humor; as tender and sensitive to the aspirations of the mind as in his daily living.

Business relations and travelling bring out the nature of a man. After my close relations with “Mark Twain” for sixteen years, I can say that he is not only what the world knows him to be, a humorist, a philosopher, and a genius, but a sympathetic, honest, brave gentleman.

* * * * *

MARK TWAIN and GEORGE W. CABLE travelled together one season. Twain and Cable, a colossal attraction, a happy combination! Mark owned the show, and paid Mr. Cable $600 a week and his travelling and hotel expenses. The manager took a percentage of the gross receipts for his services, and was to be sole manager. If he consulted the proprietor at all during the term of the agreement, said agreement became null and void.

These “twins of genius,” as I advertised them, were delightful company. Both were Southerners, born on the shores of the Mississippi River, and both sang well. Each was familiar with all the plantation songs and Mississippi River chanties of the negro, and they would often get to singing these together when by themselves, or with their manager for sole audience.

So delightful were these occasions, and so fond were they of embracing every private opportunity of “letting themselves out,” that I often instructed our carriage driver to take a long route between hotels and trains that I might have a concert which the public was never permitted to hear.

Mr. Cable’s singing of Creole songs was very charming and novel. They were so sweet, and he sang so beautifully, that everybody was charmed, it was all so simple, and quaint, and dignified.

* * * * *

“MARK TWAIN,” “NASBY,” AND “JOSH BILLINGS” happened to drop in at the Redpath Bureau in Boston at about the same time, one morning in 1873, after their return from lectures in nearby towns.

This conjunction of stars seemed hardly remarkable at that time, for in the palmy days of the lyceum in New England the parlor of the Redpath Bureau was a sort of club-room for men and women of letters, where they were accustomed to rendezvous in the morning after returning from some suburban lecturing engagement. I there met for the first time Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Garrison, being introduced to them by Mr. James Redpath. I have heard Beecher, Phillips, and Garrison in many a delightful discussion of old times in these rooms. It was no uncommon occurrence for Anna Dickinson, Mrs. Livermore, Julia Ward Howe, and Miss Anthony to meet one another there.

But the morning that the three greatest humorists of the time met there, as they were talking, it occurred to me it would be an interesting souvenir to have a group photograph of them. So I said to them, “Gentlemen, if you will come down to Warren’s and sit for a photograph, I will pay for it.” My invitation seemed to have no effect until Mr. Redpath interceded. He was manager and owner of the bureau at the time, and on his invitation we all went to Warren’s, and they sat for the picture, which is here reproduced.

This picture has often been referred to as being in collections belonging to other friends of the distinguished humorists, but I hardly think any of them ever knew how it came to be taken.

There was a very large picture taken of the group at the same time, which was the private property of James Redpath and sold with his collection. I never knew where it went. I wish I could find it, for it was a fine photograph, and I should like to own it.

* * * * *

“MAX O’RELL” (Paul Blouet), that witty Frenchman, is the only professional humorist that I ever imported, and is one of the humorous lecturers who always score a “platform success.”

He has made three successful lecture tours in America. From Nova Scotia to New Orleans and from the Atlantic to the Pacific he has appeared in all the large cities, and the immense audiences that have welcomed him everywhere attest his success.

His fun is contagious. Socially he is one of the most entertaining of men, with a good story apropos of nearly everything. He tells in his own most humorous way one instance of the Chicago reporter’s impudence and enterprise. One night he had been in bed in the Grand Pacific Hotel perhaps an hour or so when there came a very decided rapping at his chamber door.

“Who’s there?” called Max O’Rell.

“A reporter,” came the answer.

“Well, I can’t see you now. I’m in bed.”

The Frenchman heard his door being pushed open, and the chair which he had placed against it tumbled over. Some one advanced into the room, struck a match, and proceeded to light the gas.

“Well, well! What’ll you have, sir, what’ll you have?” cried Max O’Rell, indignant at this cool intruder.

The reporter tossed the match into the fireplace, and throwing himself into a chair, said:

“What’ll I have? Oh, I’ll have a whiskey cocktail.”

He wrote a book entitled “America as Seen through French Spectacles.” If he had not written that book he would have been still more popular with the lyceum. He made a trip through Australia and wrote another book which the Australians didn’t like. Had he possessed Mark Twain’s sagacity, sincerity, and love of his fellow-man, and had he seen things from their favorable point of view instead of from their objectionable side, he might certainly get as much fun out of it and his popularity would have continued. He left a riley wake clear around the world, whereas the American humorist made friends of all who met or heard or read him. I am very fond of Max O’Rell. At the same time, it is impossible to enjoy all his eccentricities. But I made allowance for all of his peculiarities, and my heart went out in sympathy for him when he was obliged to cut short his last tour and return to London because of ill health.

He is the heroic mirth provoker of his time--unlike any other humorous lecturer. His audiences are kept in convulsions of laughter from beginning to end. Occasionally one thinks he has found a let-up and that he is going to have a rest, when all of a sudden he is struck in another funny spot, and things go on that way until he has finished. I never could understand why he should not be one of the greatest natural platform attractions in the world, for I have never known a man to give an audience more delight.

In his “Brother Jonathan and His Continent” he says: “Major Pond was the only man I met in America who was not a colonel.”

* * * * *

BILL NYE was an editor when I first met him, and as I had been a printer, of course I felt akin to him. I had formed an attachment for him that made me wish to know him, so when I found myself in Laramie, on a return trip from California, I improved the opportunity to make his acquaintance. The trains from East and West across the continent met at Laramie, and made a stop of one hour, and Laramie was a lively city during that time.

I used my dinner hour to call on William. I asked a man to direct me to Bill Nye’s office, and he replied, “Just over that livery stable,” pointing across the way. I started across the street. Just over the road doorway of the stable hung a sign painted in black letters on a plain board:

“LARAMIE BOOMERANG

Walk Down the Alley
Twist the Gray Mule’s Tail
_Take the Elevator Immediately_.”

I went into the sanctum and found Nye writing at a plain table at the far side of the room, quite unaware of my presence. From photographs and descriptions I knew him by his back, and at once exclaimed:

“Hello, Bill!”

Nye rose from his seat and replied smilingly: “Hello, Jim! I guess this is Jim Pond. How are you, Major?”

I told him people were reading and talking of him all over the country, and that I believed he could make money lecturing. He replied that he had never given the matter a thought, and was trying to earn a living with his pen and through the Laramie postmastership, to which he had just been appointed.

From that time on Bill Nye and I were close friends. When he came East to live, and purchased his Staten Island home, our wives and children became friends also, and we knew and loved one another, and that love never lost any of its ardor.

I did not see Nye again until about 1886. I was looking out of my office window in the Everett House in New York, and noticed a tall, straight, slim, fair-haired man, in a slouch hat, whose countenance wore an expression of inquiry, and who seemed to be trying to find the entrance to my place. We recognized “ourselves,” and I beckoned to him, and told him to come around to the front door and have a bell-boy show him to my rooms. I added that there was no sign, or mule’s tail to twist, or elevator to take.

Bill came in and stared about at the pictures of great men and women on the walls as if he were a fresh, unsophisticated country boy--and so he was so far as experience was concerned. He told me that he had been engaged on the staff of the New York _World_ and was going to move to New York. The hardest part was to accustom himself to the politics of _The World_, but he said he supposed he could become used to that as soon as he became acclimated.

After a pleasant chat we dined together at Moretti’s. Nye asked if he would be expected to learn to eat macaroni like some of our Bohemian neighbors. This was his first Italian dinner; it was all of great interest to him, all new, and he saw it from the standpoint of an inexperienced youth.

I told him that now he was coming East to live I would make some money for him in the lyceum. He seemed doubtful, but said he would try it.

His first lecture under my auspices was given in Bridgeport, Conn. A certain organization (the Y. M. C. A.) in that place seemed to think the name of Bill Nye would draw, and engaged to pay him $150; so Bill was fitted out with his contract, and went to Bridgeport. The committee met him, and were very polite.

The contract read: “In consideration for said lecture the party of the first part agrees to pay to the party of the second part (Mr. Nye) $150 in currency on the evening of the lecture, before eight o’clock.”

Mr. Nye was on hand before the appointed time. A little after eight o’clock the president of the organization said:

“Mr. Nye, we are ready. Will you please follow me to the stage?”

Nothing was said about payment.

Mr. Nye said he was ready, but that he must return to New York as soon as the lecture was over, and added that he hoped he would not be detained. The president made no response, but walked on, followed by Bill. The Opera House was crowded, and the president remarked to the speaker of the evening that it was the largest house they remembered having on an opening night.

At the close of the lecture no one came to Mr. Nye to offer payment, and he was obliged to hint to the president that there was a little matter of business that had been forgotten.

“Oh, yes,” returned the president; “come with me to the box-office.”

“It’s twenty minutes to ten,” said Nye, “and I must catch the ten o’clock train.”

When they reached the box-office, the treasurer, who was counting the receipts of the evening, said:

“Mr. Nye, shall we settle with you or with Major Pond?”

“I have a copy of the contract, the same that you are holding in your hand, which reads ‘Settlement to be made in currency with party of the second part before eight o’clock.’”

“Oh, how much is it?”

“One hundred and fifty dollars in currency,” said Nye.

“One hundred and fifty dollars! Why, who ever heard of so much money for only an hour’s talk?”

“Did you lose any money on the venture?” asked William.

“Oh, no. The house was full; but we don’t think you ought to exact such an exorbitant sum for an hour’s talk.”

“Gentlemen, I must catch that train in ten minutes. Will you kindly settle with me?”

“You will take our check, won’t you, Mr. Nye?” asked the treasurer.

“Yes, if the contract says so. How does it read?” asked Mr. Nye, with impatience.

“It does read currency. You won’t take less than $150?”

Mr. Nye said nothing, and the treasurer counted out the money, for which Nye signed a receipt. Then he said:

“Gentlemen, I suppose you delayed this payment and decoyed me in here for the purpose of making me angry, thinking that when you gave me this money I would fling it back in your faces in a mad fit. You are mistaken. I’m a good-tempered man.”