by Mark Twain
I said no, I was not very busy, make the check to my order.
He said “Not on your life”—or words to that effect.
He did not stop with that injurious remark, but suggested that it was more than likely that there wasn’t any such colored man as John T. Lewis. I offered to bring witnesses, but he said he believed he could do better by getting some one else to select the witnesses. I think he is the stubbornest man, about some things, I have ever known—the stubbornest and the most suspicious. He was determined to draw the checks to John T. Lewis’s order, and it was only by tiring him out that at last I got him to draw them to mine. But he always disbelieved in John T. Lewis. I got myself spaciously photographed alongside of John T. Lewis, standing in front of the farm-house, at Susy Crane’s farm. It did not convince him; he merely looked sad, and framed it and hung it up in his private office at 26 Broadway, and labeled it “The Imaginary John T. Lewis”—and there it hangs yet; hangs there looking so honest that it would convince any but an implacably prejudiced mind.
I pledge my honor I always sent the money to Lewis. Moreover, I sent it through Susy Crane, who delivered it to him, month by month, in person; and to this she will testify, knowing me well enough to know that if she declines I will make trouble. The pension set Lewis up quite to his content; made a tranquilly care-free and happy man of him, and thenceforth he claimed that he was the only absolutely independent man in the county.
As you perceive, it is the Carnegie spirit over again—with this difference: John T. Lewis did get Henry Rogers’s money, but I never got the hymn-book.
While I was taking a long and comfortable and unearned holiday at Fairhaven, a few weeks ago, the following letter arrived at Dublin from Quarry Farm. It brought the news of Lewis’s death, and added certain particulars. I call attention, with a just pride, to the title which it confers upon me. All who know me—except perhaps Henry Rogers and Andrew Carnegie—will grant that I deserve it. It is a matter of pride to me to reflect that I acquired it without the help of a hymn-book. I do not know that I am surprised to find by the letter that Lewis was a Dunker Baptist. He was born one, in Maryland, but when I first knew him, something more than a generation ago, he had sampled every religion in the market, in turn, had found none of them equal to the task of saving a soul like his, and had at last joined the Free-Thinkers and found rest for his spirit. I think it quite likely that in the long lapse of years between that time and this he went back over his course, taking a bite out of each old friendly religion as he went, and finally fetched up in Dunkerdom, whence in his childhood he had started out on his long and adventurous salvation-excursion.
Quarry Farm.
Elmira, N.Y.
July 23, 1906.
Dear and Holy Samuel,
Several weeks ago I received a call from Lewis which should have fallen to your lot instead of mine; for, all the half hour, as I stood under the vines on the front porch visiting with Lewis, you were in my mind. He was half reclining in a low open wagon, into which he could climb, and out of which he could easily roll.
Lewis began by saying, “You have been very kind to me, and I thought it was not quite fair for me to slip away without telling you I was failing. And I wanted to talk with you about getting one of my own people to preach the funeral sermon. The nearest Dunker Baptist minister is in Brooklyn, a white man, and I want if possible to get him to come up here for a few days to learn about my character, so that he can speak intelligently at the funeral. Would you be willing to give a little something toward it, and maybe some other friends would.”
While a worldly ambition of this nature did not strongly appeal to me, it was the request of a dying friend and I said yes, I would help bear the expense.
Lewis then said it would be a great comfort to talk with one of his own faith, which was easy to understand. He then said, “Would you be willing to give him a meal if he comes?” “Certainly,” I promised, and after a little talk about when I should pay the rent of his farm, he went on to get his mail, his precious checks, and see his Doctor.
The Doctor forbade his going to town, but after a few days of rest Lewis was again on the road, impressing all who saw him with his feebleness. Perhaps ten days ago he gave up the trips when I made all the calls, as he went steadily down. He was always cheerful, and seemed not to suffer much pain, told stories, and was able to eat almost everything.
Three days ago a new difficulty appeared, on account of which his Doctor said he must go to the Hospital for care, such as it was quite impossible to give in his home.
He died on the way there.
With love,
Susan L. Crane.
After a few days the following interesting letter arrived:
Friday, July 27.
Dear Holy Samuel,
Now that two days are passed, it seems hardly worth while to tell you of the funeral of Lewis, save that I promised.
At the hour named a goodly company of colored and white friends gathered at the parlors of the undertaker, where all the arrangements were made in good order.
There was a long silent wait, after which Mr. Harrington, the undertaker, said that Mr. Hough, of Brooklyn who was expected, failed to come—and Mrs. Harrington would read a paper prepared by Mr. Lewis which would explain why they did not secure the services of some one else.
There were facts concerning Lewis’s birth, his life in various places, his joining the Dunker church, followed by the statement that unless some brother of his own denomination could preach his funeral sermon he wished his body to be buried without ceremony, as he did not recognize as Christians any who did not follow the explicit teaching of the Lord.
This was a surprise, there was a chill, a silence, and for an instant I felt excluded from all possibility of future rescue.
A Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer closed the simple, suitable service.
Think of it! A will strong enough to exclude all but the Dunkers! still, Lewis prayed for you and Mr. Rogers, and you may be Dunkers yet.
He was deeply and sincerely grateful to you, and had this not been as true as it was, yours was a good, a beautiful thought, faithfully put into action, year after year when you were unable to see the comfort, the blessing you were conferring. This has been my privilege, and I am thankful the struggles are ended for the lonely man.
The old hill folks are nearly all gone.
Most lovingly yours,
Susan L. Crane.
I am glad he prayed for Henry Rogers; and it would have been well enough if he had given Carnegie a lift, too.
Lewis’s last estate reminds me of David Gray’s, and is an impressive revelation of the strength and persistency of impressions made upon the human mind in the early years, when its feelings and emotions are fresh, young, and strong, and before it is capable of reasoning. At five years of age David Gray was a strenuous Presbyterian; at thirty-five he had long been a pronounced agnostic—not to put it stronger. He died as strenuous a Presbyterian as he had been when he was five years old and an expert theologian.
This morning’s cables contain a verse or two from Kipling, voicing his protest against a liberalizing new policy of the British Government which he fears will deliver the balance of power in South Africa into the hands of the conquered Boers. Kipling’s name, and Kipling’s words always stir me now—stir me more than do any other living man’s. But I remember a time, seventeen or eighteen years back, when the name did not suggest anything to me, and only the words moved me. At that time Kipling’s name was beginning to be known here and there, in spots, in India, but had not traveled outside of that empire. He came over and traveled about America, maintaining himself by correspondence with Indian journals. He wrote dashing, free-handed, brilliant letters, but no one outside of India knew about it.
On his way through the State of New York, he stopped off at Elmira and made a tedious and blistering journey up to Quarry Farm in quest of me. He ought to have telephoned the farm first; then he would have learned that I was at th
e Langdon homestead, hardly a quarter of a mile from his hotel. But he was only a lad of twenty-four, and properly impulsive—and he set out, without inquiring, on that dusty and roasting journey up the hill. He found Susy Crane and my little Susy there, and they came as near making him comfortable as the weather and the circumstances would permit——
Monday, August 13, 1906
Kipling’s visit to Mr. Clemens’s in Elmira, continued—Some of his books mentioned.
The group sat on the veranda, and while Kipling rested and refreshed himself he refreshed the others with his talk—talk of a quality which was well above what they were accustomed to; talk which might be likened to footprints, so strong and definite was the impression which it left behind. They often spoke wonderingly of Kipling’s talk, afterward, and they recognized that they had been in contact with an extraordinary man; but it is more than likely that they were the only persons who had perceived that he was extraordinary. It is not likely that they perceived his full magnitude; it is most likely that they were Eric Ericsons who had discovered a continent but did not suspect the horizonless extent of it. His was an unknown name, and was to remain unknown for a year yet; but Susy kept his card and treasured it as an interesting possession. Its address was Allahabad. No doubt India had been to her an imaginary land, up to this time; a fairyland, a dreamland, a land made out of poetry and moonlight for the Arabian Nights to do their gorgeous miracles in; and doubtless Kipling’s flesh and blood and modern clothes realized it to her for the first time, and solidified it. I think so because she more than once remarked upon its incredible remoteness from the world that we were living in, and computed that remoteness and pronounced the result with a sort of awe—fourteen thousand miles, or sixteen thousand, whichever it was. Kipling had written upon the card a compliment to me. This gave the card an additional value in Susy’s eyes, since as a distinction it was the next thing to being recognized by a denizen of the moon.
Kipling came down, that afternoon, and spent a couple of hours with me, and at the end of that time I had surprised him as much as he had surprised me—and the honors were easy. I believed that he knew more than any person I had met before, and I knew that he knew I knew less than any person he had met before—though he did not say it; and I was not expecting that he would. When he was gone, Mrs. Langdon wanted to know about my visitor. I said,
“He is a stranger to me, but he is a most remarkable man—and I am the other one. Between us, we cover all knowledge; he knows all that can be known, and I know the rest.”
He was a stranger to me, and to all the world, and remained so for twelve months; then he became suddenly known, and universally known. From that day to this he has held this unique distinction: that of being the only living person, not head of a nation, whose voice is heard around the world the moment it drops a remark; the only such voice in existence that does not go by slow ship and rail but always travels first-class—by cable.
About a year after Kipling’s visit in Elmira, George Warner came into our library one morning, in Hartford, with a small book in his hand, and asked me if I had ever heard of Rudyard Kipling. I said,
“No.”
He said I would hear of him very soon, and that the noise he was going to make would be loud and continuous. The little book was the “Plain Tales,” and he left it for me to read, saying it was charged with a new and inspiriting fragrance and would blow a refreshing breath around the world that would revive the nations. A day or two later he brought a copy of the London World which had a sketch of Kipling in it, and a mention of the fact that he had traveled in the United States. According to this sketch, he had passed through Elmira. This remark, added to the additional fact that he hailed from India, attracted my attention—also Susy’s. She went to her room and brought his card from its place in the frame of her mirror, and the Quarry Farm visitor stood identified.
I am not acquainted with my own books, but I know Kipling’s—at any rate I know them better than I know anybody else’s books. They never grow pale to me; they keep their color; they are always fresh. Certain of the ballads have a peculiar and satisfying charm for me. To my mind, the incomparable Jungle Books must remain unfellowed permanently. I think it was worth the journey to India to qualify myself to read “Kim” understandingly and to realize how great a book it is. The deep and subtle and fascinating charm of India pervades no other book as it pervades “Kim;” “Kim” is pervaded by it as by an atmosphere. I read the book every year, and in this way I go back to India without fatigue—the only foreign land I ever day-dream about or deeply long to see again.
Wednesday, August 15, 1906
First school days—Praying for gingerbread.
My school days began when I was four years and a half old. This was at Hannibal, Missouri, a place which at that time was either a large village or a small town, I hardly know which. There were no public schools in Missouri in those early days, but there were two private schools in Hannibal—terms twenty-five cents per week per pupil, and collect it if you can. Mrs. Horr taught the children, in a small log house at the southern end of Main street; Mr. Sam Cross taught the young people of larger growth in a frame schoolhouse on the hill. I was sent to Mrs. Horr’s school, and I remember my first day in that little log house with perfect clearness, after these sixty-five years and upwards; at least I remember an episode of that first day. I broke one of the rules, and was warned not to do it again, and was told that the penalty for a second breach was a whipping. I presently broke the rule again, and Mrs. Horr told me to go out and find a switch and fetch it. I was glad she appointed me, for I believed I could select a switch suitable to the occasion with more judiciousness than anybody else. In the mud I found a cooper’s shaving of the old-time pattern—oak, two inches broad, a quarter of an inch thick, and rising in a shallow curve at one end. There were nice new firm-bodied shavings of the same breed close by, but I took this one, although it was rotten. I carried it to Mrs. Horr, presented it, and stood before her in an attitude of meekness and resignation which seemed to me calculated to win favor and sympathy; but it did not happen. She divided a long look of strong disapprobation equally between me and the rotten shaving; then she called me by my entire name, Samuel Langhorne Clemens—probably the first time I had ever heard it all strung together in one procession—and said she was ashamed of me. I was to learn, later, that when a teacher calls a boy by his entire name it means trouble. She said she would try and appoint a boy with a better judgment than mine in the matter of switches, and it saddens me yet to remember how many faces lighted up with the hope of getting that appointment. Jim Dunlap got it, and when he returned with the switch of his choice I recognized that he was an expert. For sixty-five years I have wanted to expose him to infamy, and I do it now with a large and healing satisfaction.
Mrs. Horr was a New England lady of middle age, with New England ways and principles, and she always opened school with prayer and a chapter from the New Testament; also she explained the chapter with a brief talk. In one of these talks she dwelt upon the text “Ask and ye shall receive,” and said that whosoever prayed for a thing with earnestness and strong desire need not doubt that his prayer would be answered. I was so forcibly struck by this information, and so gratified by the opportunities which it offered, that this was probably the first time I had heard of it. I thought I would give it a trial. I believed in Mrs. Horr thoroughly, and I had no doubts as to the result. I prayed for gingerbread. Margaret Kooneman, who was the baker’s daughter, brought a slab of gingerbread to school every morning; she had always kept it out of sight before, but when I finished my prayer and glanced up, there it was in easy reach, and she was looking the other way. In all my life I believe I never enjoyed an answer to prayer more than I enjoyed that one; and I was a convert, too. I had no end of wants and they had always remained unsatisfied, up to that time, but I meant to supply them, and extend them, now that I had found out how to do it.
But this dream was like almost all the other dreams we in
dulge in in life—there was nothing in it. I did as much praying, during the next two or three days, as any one in that town, I suppose, and I was very sincere and earnest about it too, but nothing came of it. I found that not even the most powerful prayer was competent to lift that gingerbread again, and I came to the conclusion that if a person remains faithful to his gingerbread and keeps his eye on it, he need not trouble himself about your prayers.
Something about my conduct and bearing troubled my mother, and she took me aside and questioned me concerning it with much solicitude. I was reluctant to reveal to her the change that had come over me, for it would grieve me to distress her kind heart, but at last I confessed, with many tears, that I had ceased to be a Christian. She was heartbroken, and asked me why.