This manuscript, like the previous two, belongs to the series of biographies Clemens was writing in 1898–99 instead of continuing to work in the more traditional format for an autobiography. It is obviously related in other ways to Clemens’s reminiscences in “Lecture-Times,” but it starts somewhat earlier, when he was a newspaper reporter in San Francisco, and extends to his 1871–72 lecture tour, during which he relied on Ralph Keeler for companionship in “lecture-flights” made out to the suburbs around Boston. Paine printed this text with his usual errors and omissions ( MTA, 1:154–64). Neider reprinted only part of it, inserting excerpts from “Lecture-Times” and the Autobiographical Dictations of 11 and 12 October 1906 ( AMT, 161–66).
He was a Californian. I probably knew him in San Francisco in the early days—about 1865—when I was a newspaper reporterⒺexplanatory note and Bret Harte, AmbroseⒶapparatus note Bierce, Charles Warren Stoddard and Prentice Mulford were doing young literary work for Mr. Joe Lawrence’s weekly periodical The Golden Era Ⓔexplanatory note. At any rate I knew him in Boston a few years later, where he comraded with Howells, AldrichⒺexplanatory note, Boyle O’ReillyⒺexplanatory note, and James T. FieldsⒺexplanatory note, and was greatly liked by them. I say he comraded with them, and that is the proper term, though he would not have given the relationship so familiar a name himself, for he was the modestest young fellow that ever was, and looked humbly up to those distinguished men from his lowly obscurity and was boyishlyⒶapparatus note grateful for the friendlyⒶapparatus note notice they took of him, and frankly grateful for it; and when he got a smile and a nod from Mr. Emerson and Mr. WhittierⒶapparatus note and Holmes and Lowell and LongfellowⒺexplanatory note, his happiness was the prettiest thing in the world to see. He was not more than twenty-four at this time; the native sweetness of his disposition had not been marred by cares and disappointments; he was buoyant and hopeful, simple-hearted, and full of the most engaging and unexacting little literary ambitions, and whomsoever he met became his friend and—by some natural and unexplained impulse—took him under protection.
He probably never had a homeⒶapparatus note nor a boyhood. He had wandered to California as a little chap from somewhere or other, and had cheerfully achieved his bread in various humble callings, educating himselfⒶapparatus note as he went along, and having a good and satisfactory time. Among his various industries was clog-dancingⒶapparatus note in a “nigger” show. When he was about twenty years old he scraped together $85—in greenbacks, worth about half that sum in gold—and on this capital he made the tour of Europe and published an account of his travels in the Atlantic Monthly Ⓔexplanatory note. When he was about twenty-two he wrote a novel called “Gloverson and His Silent Partners;” and not only that, but found a publisher for itⒺexplanatory note. But that was not really a surprising thing, in his case, for not even a publisher is hard-hearted enoughⒶapparatus note to be able to say no to some people—and Ralph was one of those people. His gratitude for a favor granted him was so simple and sincere and so eloquent and touching that a publisher would recognize that if there was no money in the book there was still a profit to be had out of it beyond the value of money and above money’s reach. There was no money in that book; not a single penny; but Ralph Keeler always spoke of his publisher as other people speak of divinities. The publisher lost $200 [begin page 151] or $300Ⓐapparatus note on the book, of course, and knew he would lose it when he made the venture, but he got much more than the worth of it back in the author’s adoring admiration of him.
Ralph had little or nothing to do, and he often went out with me to the small lecture-towns in the neighborhood of Boston. These lay within an hour of town, and we usually started at six or thereabouts, and returned to the city in the morning. It took about a month to do these Boston annexes, and that was the easiest and pleasantest month of the four or five which constituted the “lecture season.”Ⓔexplanatory note The “lyceumⒶapparatus note system” was in full flower in those days, and James Redpath’s Bureau in School street, BostonⒺexplanatory note, had the management of it throughout the Northern States and Canada. RedpathⒶapparatus note farmed out the lecturers in groups of six or eight to the lyceums all over the country at an average of about $100 a night for each lecturer. His commission was ten per cent; each lecturer appeared about one hundred and tenⒶapparatus note nights in the season. There were a number of good drawing names in his list: Henry Ward Beecher; Anna Dickinson; John B. Gough; Horace Greeley; Wendell Phillips; Petroleum V. Nasby; Josh Billings; Hayes, the Arctic explorer; Vincent; the English astronomer; Parsons, Irish oratorⒺexplanatory note; AgassizⒺexplanatory note. HeⒶapparatus note had in his list twenty or thirty men and women of light consequence and limited reputation who wrought for fees ranging from $25 to $50. Their names have perished long ago. Nothing but art could find them a chance on the platform. Redpath furnishedⒶapparatus note that art. All the lyceums wanted the big guns, and wanted them yearningly, longingly, strenuously. Redpath granted their prayers—on this condition: for each house-filler allotted them they must hire several of his house-emptiers. This arrangement permitted the lyceums to get through alive for a few years, but in the end it killed them all and abolished the lecture business.
Beecher, Gough, Nasby and Anna Dickinson were the only lecturers who knew their own value and exacted it. In towns their fee was $200 and $250; in cities $400. The lyceum always got a profit out of these four (weather permitting), but generallyⒶapparatus note lost it again on the house-emptiers.
There were two womenⒶapparatus note who should have been house-emptiers—Olive Logan and Kate Field—but during a season or twoⒶapparatus note they were not. They charged $100, and were recognizedⒶapparatus note house-fillers for certainly twoⒶapparatus note years. After that they were capable emptiers and were presently shelved. Kate Field had made a wide spasmodic notorietyⒶapparatus note in 1867 by some letters which she sent from Boston—by telegraph—to the Tribune about Dickens’s readings there in the beginning of his triumphant American tour. The letters were a frenzy of praise—praise which approached idolatry—and this was the right and welcome key to strike, for the country was itself in a frenzy of enthusiasm about Dickens. Then the idea of telegraphing a newspaper letter was new and astonishing, and the wonder of it was in everyone’s mouth. Kate Field became a celebrity at once. By and by she went on the platform; but two or three years had elapsed and her subject—Dickens—had now lost its freshness and its interest. For a while people went to see her, because of her name; but her lecture was poor and her delivery repellentlyⒶapparatus note artificial; consequently when the country’sⒶapparatus note desire to look at her had been appeased, the platform forsook her.
She was a good creature, and the acquisition of a perishable and fleeting notoriety was the disaster of her life. To her it was infinitely precious, and she tried hard, in various ways, during more than a quarter of a century, to keep a semblance of life in it, but her efforts were but [begin page 152] moderately successful. She died in the Sandwich Islands, regretted by her friends and forgotten of the worldⒺexplanatory note.
Olive Logan’s notoriety grew out of—only the initiatedⒶapparatus note knew what. Apparently it was a manufactured notoriety, not an earned one. She did write and publish little things in newspapers and obscure periodicals, but there was no talent in them, and nothing resembling it. In a century they would not have made her known. Her name was really built up out of newspaper paragraphs set afloat by her husband, who was a small-salaried minor journalistⒺexplanatory note. During a year or two this kind of paragraphing was persistent; one could seldom pick up a newspaper without encountering it.
“It is said that Olive Logan has taken a cottage at Nahant, and will spend the summer there.”
“Olive Logan has set her face decidedly against the adoption of the short skirt for afternoon wear.”
“The report that Olive Logan will spend the coming winter in Paris is premature. She has not yet made up her mind.”
“Olive LoganⒶapparatus note was present at Wallack’s on Saturday evening, and was outspoken in her approval of the new piece.”
“Olive Logan has so far recovered from her alarming illness that if she continues to improve her physicians will cease from issuing bulletins tomorrow.”
The result ofⒶapparatus note this daily advertising was very curious. Olive Logan’s name was as familiar to aⒶapparatus note simple public as was that of any celebrity of the time,Ⓐapparatus note and people talked with interest about her doings and movements, and gravely discussed her opinions. Now and then an ignorant person from the backwoods would proceed to inform himself, and then there were surprisesⒶapparatus note in store for all concerned:
“Who is Olive Logan?”
The listeners were astonished to find that they couldn’t answer the question. It had never occurred to them to inquire into the matter.
“What has she done?”
The listeners were dumb again. They didn’t know. They hadn’t inquired.
“Well, then, how does she come to be celebrated?”
“Oh, it’s about something, I don’t know what. I never inquired, but I supposed everybody knew.”
For entertainment I often asked these questions myself, of people who were glibly talking about that celebrity and her doings and sayings. The questioned were surprised to find that they had been taking this fame wholly on trust, and had no idea who Olive Logan was or what she had done—if anything.
On the strength of this oddly created notoriety Olive Logan went on the platform, and for at least two seasons the United States flocked to the lecture halls to look atⒶapparatus note her. She was merely a name and some rich and costlyⒶapparatus note clothes, and neither of these propertiesⒶapparatus note had any lasting quality, though for a while they were able to command a fee of $100Ⓐapparatus note a night. She dropped out of the memories of men a quarter of a century ago.
Ralph Keeler was pleasant company on my lecture-flightsⒶapparatus note out of Boston, and we had plenty [begin page 153] of good talks and smokes in our rooms after the committee had escorted us to the inn and made their good-night. There was always a committee,Ⓐapparatus note and they wore a silk badge of office; they received us at the station and drove us to the lecture hallⒶapparatus note; they sat in a row of chairs behind me on the stage, minstrel-fashion, and in the earliest days their chief used to introduce me to the audience; but these introductions were so grossly flattering that they made me ashamed, and so I began my talk at a heavy disadvantage. It was a stupid custom; there was no occasion for the introduction; the introducer was almost always an ass, and his prepared speech a jumble of vulgar compliments and dreary efforts to be funny; therefore after the first season I always introduced myself—using, of course,Ⓐapparatus note a burlesque of the time-worn introductionⒺexplanatory note. This change was not popular with committee-chairmen. To stand up grandly before a great audience of his townsmen and make his little devilish speech was the joy of his life, and to have that joy taken from him was almost more than he could bear.
My introduction of myself was a most efficient “starter” for a while, then it failed. It had to be carefully and painstakingly worded, and very earnestly spoken, in order that all strangers present might be deceived into the supposition that I was only the introducer and not the lecturer; also that the flow of overdoneⒶapparatus note compliments might sicken those strangers; then, when the end was reached and the remark casually dropped that I was the lecturer and had been talking about myself, the effect was very satisfactory. But it was a good card for only a little while, as I have said; for the newspapers printed it, and after that I could not make it go, since the house knew what was coming and retained its emotions.
Next I tried an introduction taken from my Californian experiences. It was gravelyⒶapparatus note made by a slouching and awkward big miner in the village of Red Dog. The house, very much against his will, forced him to ascend the platform and introduce me. He stood thinking a moment, then said:
“I don’t know anything about this man. At least I know only two things; one is, he hasn’t been in the penitentiary, and the other is (after a pause, and almost sadly), I don’t know why. Ⓔexplanatory note”
That worked well for a while, then the newspapers printed it and took the juice out of it, and after that I gave up introductions altogether.
Now and then Keeler and I had a mild little adventure, but none which couldn’t be forgottenⒶapparatus note without much of a strain. Once we arrived late at a town and found no committee in waiting, and no sleighs on the stand. We struckⒶapparatus note up a street, in the gay moonlight, found a tide of people flowing along, judged it was on its way to the lecture hall—a correct guess—and joined it. At the hall I tried to press in but was stopped by the ticket-taker—
“Ticket, please.”
I bent over and whispered—
“It’s all right—I am the lecturer.”
He closed one eye impressively and said, loud enough for all the crowd to hear—
“No you don’t. Three of you have got in, up to now, but the next lecturer that goes in here to-night pays.”
Of course we paid; it was the least embarrassing way out of the trouble. The very next morning Keeler had an adventure. About eleven o’clock I was sitting in my room reading the paper when he burst into the place all a-tremble with excitement and said—
[begin page 154] “Come with me—quick!”
“What is it? what’s happened?”
“Don’t wait to talk—come with me.”
We tramped briskly up the main street three or four blocks, neither of usⒶapparatus note speaking, both of us excited, I in a sort of panic of apprehension and horrid curiosity, then we plunged into a building and down through the middle of it to the further end. Keeler stopped, put out his hand, and said—
“Look.”
I looked, but saw nothing except a row of books.
“What is it, Keeler?”
He said, in a kind of joyous ecstasy—
“Keep on looking—to the right; further—further to the right. There—see it? ‘GloversonⒶapparatus note and His Silent Partners!’ ”Ⓐapparatus note
And there it was, sure enough.
“This is a library! Understand? Public library. And they’ve got it!”
His eyesⒶapparatus note, his face, his attitude, his gestures, his whole being spoke his delight, his pride, his happiness. It never occurred to me to laugh; a supreme joy like that moves one the other way; I was stirred almost to the crying point to see so perfect a happiness.
He knew all about the book, for he had been cross-examining the librarian. It had been in the library two years, and the records showed that it had been taken out three times.
“And read, too!” said Keeler. “See—the leaves are all cut.”
Moreover, the book had been “bought, not given—it’s on the record.” I think “Gloverson”Ⓐapparatus note was published in San Francisco. Other copies had been sold, no doubt, but this present sale was the only one Keeler was certain of. It seemsⒶapparatus note unbelievable that the sale of an edition of one book could give an author this immeasurable peace and contentment, but I was there and I saw it.
Afterward Keeler went out to Ohio and hunted out one of Ossawatomie Brown’s brothers on his farm and took down in long-hand his narrativeⒶapparatus note of his adventures in escaping from Virginia after the tragedy of 1859—the most admirable piece of reporting, I make no doubt, that was ever done by a man destitute of a knowledge of short-hand writing. It was published in the Atlantic Monthly Ⓔexplanatory note, and I made three attempts to read it but was frightened off each time before I could finish. The tale was so vivid and so real that I seemed to be living those adventures myself and sharing their intolerable perils, and the torture of it all was so sharp that I was never able to follow the story to the end.
By and by the Tribune commissioned Keeler to go to Cuba and report the facts of an outrage or an insult of some sort which the Spanish authorities had been perpetrating upon us according to their well-worn habit and custom. He sailed from New York in the steamer and was last seen alive the night before the vessel reached Havana. It was said that he had not made a secret of his mission, but had talked about it freely, in his frank and innocent way. There were some Spanish military men on board. It may be that he was not flung into the sea; still, the belief was general that that was what hadⒶapparatus note happenedⒺexplanatory note.
San Francisco in the early days—about 1865—when I was a newspaper reporter] Clemens was hired as the local reporter for the San Francisco Morning Call in June 1864, soon after arriving from Virginia City, Nevada Territory. (He had corresponded for the Call from Nevada the previous year.) The “fearful drudgery” (as he characterized it) of covering the news of the courts and theaters—plus other events of interest he could discover—ended in October, when he was “advised” to resign (see AD, 13 June 1906; CofC, 16–24; 18? May 1863 to JLC and PAM, L1, 254 n. 7).
Bret Harte . . . The Golden Era] As the most important literary weekly in San Francisco in the early 1860s, the Golden Era provided a vehicle for the apprentice work of many western writers. Its editor from 1860 to 1866, Joseph E. Lawrence, was known for his genial nature and generosity. He aimed at pleasing both a rural and urban readership by offering serialized sensation novels, poetry, and local news and gossip, as well as higher-quality literature. Clemens contributed several articles to the Golden Era in late 1863 and early 1864, but later that year abandoned it in favor of a new journal, the more “high-toned” Californian ( L1: link note following 19 Aug 1863 to JLC and PAM, 265–66; 25 Sept 1864 to JLC and PAM, 312, 314 n. 5). Harte (1836–1902) began setting type in 1860 for the Golden Era, which was soon publishing his verse and prose sketches. When the Californian began publication in May 1864 he became a major contributor, and, while serving as its editor in the fall, solicited Clemens’s work. (Clemens discusses Harte at length in the Autobiographical Dictations of 13 June, 14 June, and 18 June 1906, and 4 February 1907.) Ambrose Bierce (1842–?1914) did not arrive in San Francisco until early 1867, by which time Clemens had left for the East Coast. The two must have met in April or July 1868, when Clemens was on his last visit to San Francisco. Bierce’s first published article appeared in the Californian in September 1867, and his first Golden Era article was in the July 1868 issue. Lawrence invited Prentice Mulford (1834–91) to write for the Golden Era in 1866, after reading his poems and humorous stories in the Sonora Union Democrat. For Stoddard, see “Scraps from My Autobiography. From Chapter IX,” note at 161.27–30 (1 May 1867 to Harte, L2, 40 n. 1; Walker 1969, 119–32, 142–45, 190–91; Bierce 1868; Joshi and Schultz 1999, 75–76; Davidson 1988, 23; L6: 8 Apr 1874 to Chatto and Windus, 102 n. 1; 1 Feb 1875 to Stoddard, 364, 366 n. 4; Hart 1987, 46–47, 191, 208, 337–38).
Aldrich] See “Robert Louis Stevenson and Thomas Bailey Aldrich.”
Boyle O’Reilly] John Boyle O’Reilly (1844–90) was an Irish poet, editor, and nationalist. Convicted of conspiracy for his activism in the Fenian movement, he was transported to Australia in 1868 but escaped to America the following year. He edited the Boston Pilot for many years, in which he advocated Home Rule, and became a popular lecturer.
James T. Fields] James Thomas Fields (1817–81) became a partner in the publishing company of William D. Ticknor and Co. when only twenty-five, and then the head of Ticknor and Fields in 1854. He edited the Atlantic Monthly, published by his firm, from 1861 to 1871, and was also a poet and the author of several books of reminiscences (Winship 1995, 17–18).
Mr. Emerson . . . Longfellow] Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–82), John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–92), Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809–94), James Russell Lowell (1819–91), and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–82) all published their works through firms with which James T. Fields was associated: Ticknor and Fields and, after 1868, Fields, Osgood and Co. (Austin 1953, 16, 38).
He probably never had a home . . . an account of his travels in the Atlantic Monthly] Ralph Olmstead Keeler (1840–73) was born in Ohio. Orphaned at age eight, he was sent to an uncle in Buffalo but ran away and began a vagabond life, working first on lake steamers and trains, and then as an entertainer in “negro” minstrel shows. After supporting himself through four years of college, he went to study in Germany, where he corresponded for several journals. He moved to San Francisco around 1863, where he lived by teaching and lecturing, as well as writing a humorous column—and a number of stories—for the Golden Era (1 Nov 1871 to OLC, L4, 485–86 n. 3; Walker 1969, 138–42). His articles for the Atlantic Monthly—“Three Years as a Negro Minstrel” (July 1869) and “The Tour of Europe for $181 in Currency” (July 1870)—were later collected in Vagabond Adventures, published by Fields, Osgood and Co. (Keeler 1869b, 1870a, 1870b).
“Gloverson and His Silent Partners;” . . . found a publisher for it] Keeler’s novel, set in San Francisco, was a conventional and unimaginative tale with the stock ingredients of romance, adversity, pathos, and comic relief. Howells, in a fond reminiscence of Keeler, recalled reviewing his manuscript for possible publication in the Atlantic Monthly. When he “reported against it,” Keeler published the book in 1869 “at his own cost” (Howells 1900, 276). In 1874 Clemens facetiously predicted to Howells that this “noble classic” would be “translated into all the languages of the earth” and “adored by all nations & known to all creatures” (20 Nov 1874 to Howells [1st], L6, 291, also in AD, 12 Sept 1908; Keeler 1869a; Walker 1969, 141–42).
he often went out with me . . . “lecture season.”] Clemens enjoyed Keeler’s company in November 1871, while on a lecture tour that lasted from mid-October 1871 to late February 1872. Between 31 October and 17 November Clemens appeared twice in Boston and in several nearby towns ( L4: 1 Nov 1871 to OLC, 484, 485–86 n. 3; “Lecture Schedule, 1871–72,” 557–60).
James Redpath’s Bureau in School street, Boston] See “Lecture-Times,” note at 148.8. The bureau opened on 29 Bromfield Street, and in 1871 moved to 36 Bromfield. It was never on School Street (Eubank 1969, 105).
Henry Ward Beecher . . . English astronomer . . . Parsons, Irish orator] The following people were on one or more of Redpath’s lists of available lecturers between 1869 and 1873: Henry Ward Beecher (1813–87), the famous liberal pastor of Plymouth Church in Brooklyn; Anna Dickinson (1842–1932), an eloquent promoter of women’s rights; John B. Gough (1817–86), a temperance advocate; Wendell Phillips (1811–84), a social reformer; John H. Vincent (1832–1920), a religious educator; and William Parsons, an orator on literary and historical subjects. For Petroleum V. Nasby (David Ross Locke), Josh Billings (Henry Wheeler Shaw), and Isaac I. Hayes, who were also among Redpath’s clients, see “Lecture-Times,” notes at 146.1–5, 148.21, and 149.13–14. Horace Greeley, one of the most popular speakers on the lecture circuit, was not on Redpath’s “regular” list but may have been one of the clients for whom he planned special engagements in large cities. The name of the “English astronomer” evidently escaped Clemens’s memory; a space for a name remains in the manuscript. He may have been Richard A. Proctor (1837–88), a renowned author and astronomer who made his first American lecture tour in 1873–74 but did not appear on Redpath’s list until many years later ( Lyceum 1871, 29–34; Eubank 1969, 241, 295–301; Chicago Tribune: “ ‘Self-Made Men,’ ” 21 Sept 1871, 4; “Prof. Proctor’s Lectures,” 26 Feb 1874; Pond 1900, 178–79, 347).
Agassiz] Swiss-born Harvard naturalist Louis Agassiz (1807–73) and his less famous son, Alexander (1835–1910), were both active on the lecture circuit. Clemens heard the younger Agassiz speak at Newport in 1875, but neither man was on Redpath’s roster (link note following 29? July 1875 to Redpath, L6, 521–22).
Kate Field . . . forgotten of the world] Field (1838–96) began her career as a journalist in 1859, writing letters from Italy to several American newspapers. Her first work for the New York Tribune was a series of articles on the 1866 American tour of Italian actress Adelaide Ristori, which led to an assignment to cover Charles Dickens’s second (and last) American reading tour. Her reviews were expanded and collected in Pen Photographs of Charles Dickens’s Readings (Field 1868). She made her debut as a lecturer in 1869, reading her essay “Woman in the Lyceum,” and continued to appear on the platform for most of her life. After an unsuccessful attempt at acting, in 1890 she started a newspaper, Kate Field’s Washington, and was its principal writer. In 1895 she went to Hawaii for her health, and died there of pneumonia (Scharnhorst 2004, 159–61; “Miss Kate Field on ‘Woman in the Lyceum,’ ” New York Times, 4 May 1869, 5; Field 1996, xxii–xxv, xxviii, xxix–xxx; 30 Jan 1871 to Redpath, L4, 323–24 n. 3).
Olive Logan’s notoriety . . . her husband, who was a small-salaried minor journalist] Olive Logan (1839–1909), the daughter of a comedian and dramatist, enjoyed some success as an actress until her retirement from the stage in 1868. She published several books, the most successful of which was Before the Footlights and Behind the Scenes, an account of theater life. For two seasons, from 1869 to 1871, she was engaged by the Redpath Lyceum, offering lectures such as “The Passions,” “Paris, City of Luxury,” and “Girls,” which promoted women’s rights. In December 1871, Logan (who was divorced) married her second husband, William Wirt Sikes (1836–83). He worked as a journalist for several newspapers in New York State and contributed stories to periodicals such as Harper’s Monthly and The Youth’s Companion. Like his wife, Sikes lectured for Redpath from 1869 to 1871, delivering “The Peculiar Perils of Great Cities” and “After Dark in New York,” in which he described “dangerous haunts of vice and crime.” In 1876 he was appointed U.S. consul at Cardiff, Wales, and later wrote works about the history and folklore of the region ( Lyceum 1870, 9, 15; 8 Jan 1870 to OLL [1st], L4, 9 n. 3; Olive Logan 1870; see also AD, 11 Apr 1906).
after the first season I always introduced myself—using, of course, a burlesque of the time-worn introduction] Clemens began introducing himself during the winter of 1869–70, while on his second eastern lecture tour (the first that Redpath arranged). On 8 December, in Washington, he announced that since he “knew considerably more about himself than anybody else, he thought he was better qualified to perform that ceremony. He had studied the usual form, and he thought he had finally mastered it” (“Mark Twain’s Savages,” Washington [D.C.] Morning Chronicle, 9 Dec 1869, 4). Several days later, in Meriden, Connecticut, he opened with the speech that became his standard introduction for the rest of the season, with slight variations:
I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. Samuel Clemens, otherwise Mark Twain, a gentleman whose high character and unimpeachable veracity are only surpassed by his personal comeliness and native modesty. [Applause, for the audience began to smell a rat and take him for the lecturer.] And, continued he, with the utmost sang froid, I am the gentleman referred to. I suppose I ought to ask pardon for breaking the usual custom on such occasions and introducing myself, but it could not be avoided, as the gentleman who was to introduce me did not know my real name, hence I relieved him of his duties. (“Mark Twain’s Lecture,” Meriden Republican, 13 Dec 1869, 2)
introduction taken from my Californian experiences . . . I don’t know why] Clemens began his 1871–72 lecture tour in mid-October with the same introduction he had used in 1869–70 (see the note at 153.8–9). By 1 December, however, he had adopted the new one. He had lectured in the mining town of Red Dog, California, on 24 October 1866 (“Our Lecture Course,” Oswego [N.Y.] Commercial Advertiser and Times, 2 Dec 1871, 4; “Mark Twain,” Easton [Pa.] Express, 24 Nov 1871; link note following 25 Aug 1866 to Bowen, L1, 362; see also MTB, 1:295).
one of Ossawatomie Brown’s brothers . . . tragedy of 1859 . . . Atlantic Monthly] Militant abolitionist John Brown earned the nickname “Ossawatomie” from his battles against proslavery forces near the Kansas town of that name. Keeler interviewed two of Brown’s sons on their Ohio farm, located on Put-in-Bay Island in Lake Erie. The younger son, Owen, had been with his father at the failed attack on the U.S. armory at Harpers Ferry, Virginia (now West Virginia), in 1859. Brown was captured and executed for treason, but Owen was among those who escaped, and he told Keeler of his experiences on that night, and during the following days, in great detail. Keeler’s long article in the Atlantic Monthly was published posthumously, in March 1874 (Keeler 1874).
the Tribune commissioned Keeler to go to Cuba . . . that was what had happened] In 1868, Cuba began a war of rebellion against Spain—known as the Ten Years’ War—which was ultimately unsuccessful. Although the United States remained neutral in the conflict, there was widespread sympathy for the rebellion among Americans. In October 1873 the Spanish captured the Virginius, a ship transporting arms to the insurgents, and executed over fifty of the men on board, many of whom were Americans. In late November Keeler traveled to Cuba as a correspondent for the New York Tribune, and over the next few weeks submitted several letters about the crisis. At the start of his return trip in mid-December, he disappeared from a steamship in Cuban waters. Although his fate was never known, it was believed that he was assassinated as a result of the violent anti-American sentiment arising from the Virginius incident. Howells, who eulogized Keeler in the March 1874 issue of the Atlantic Monthly, speculated that he had been “stabbed and thrown into the sea” by a Spanish officer who discovered that he was an American journalist (Halstead 1897, 41, 49; Howells 1874a, 366).
Source document.
MS Manuscript of 24 leaves, written in 1898–99.The paper and ink of the MS match those used for “Horace Greeley” and “Lecture-Times,” and are described in the former’s Textual Commentary. Paine noted on the first page of the MS, ‘Written About 1898’.