§ 107. Answers to Correspondents
17 June 1865
The third column that Clemens contributed to the Californian was his most spirited and appealing. He combined a choice selection of his own personal grievances, literary and otherwise, with some astute self-advertising. He praised his earlier sketch “Whereas” (no. 94) and continued the joke about Dutch Flat poetry, quoting the Gold Hill News at length (see no. 106). But perhaps the most significant passage contains the work of a character who would soon reappear in a larger role, Simon Wheeler. Wheeler sends a poem from Sonora, a “rich gold-mining region” east of San Francisco. It is about a gambling parson, “among the whitest men I ever see,” who has gone broke by playing poker and has returned home to Arkansas: “He Done His Level Best.”
Clemens was quite proud of this poem, which of course exploits the other side of the Dutch Flat poetry joke. When Bret Harte's 1865 anthology of California verse, Outcroppings, was accused of omitting all but poetry written in the cities, Harte said in the Californian that “Phoenix's ‘He Was Accidentally Shot,’ and Mark Twain's ‘He Done His Level Best,’ are fair instances of the poetical tendencies of ‘inland domesticity ignorant of the cosmopolitan sea,’ ” a phrase rashly used by the irate Sacramento Union reviewer of Outcroppings. Harte further admitted, not without humor, that both of these poems “certainly have been wrongfully overlooked in the volume.” Clemens wrote to Charles Warren Stoddard in April 1867: “I wrote a sublime poem—‘He Done His Level Best’—& what credit did I ever get for it?—None. Bret left it out of the Outcroppings. I never will write another poem. I am not appreciated.”1 [begin page 188] This proved a hollow threat, of course, as readers of chapter 17 of Huckleberry Finn will recall. There Clemens exploits the same burlesque device of an endlessly repeated but distinctly unmusical rhyme in his incomparable “Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd.”
Clemens used only the first half of this column in the composite “Answers to Correspondents” sketch for the 1867 Jumping Frog book, probably because the second half was not preserved in the Yale Scrapbook, which nevertheless does preserve his revisions of the early portion.
Moral Statistician.—I don't want any of your statistics. I took your whole batch and lit my pipe with it. I hate your kind of people. You are always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured,Ⓐemendation and how much his intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and cents he wastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the fatal practice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of drinking coffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking a glass of wine at dinner, etc., etc., etc. And you are always figuring out how many women have been burned to death because of the dangerous fashion of wearing expansive hoops, etc., etc., etc. You never see but one side of the question. You are blind to the fact that most old men in America smoke and drink coffee, although, according to your theory, they ought to have died young; and that hearty old Englishmen drink wine and survive it, and portly old Dutchmen both drink and smoke freely, and yet grow older and fatter all the time.Ⓐemendation And you never try to find out how much solid comfort, relaxation and enjoyment a man derives from smoking in the course of a lifetime, (and which is worth ten times the money he would save by letting it alone,) nor the appalling aggregate of happiness lost in a lifetime by your kind of people from not smoking. Of course you can save money by denying yourself all these little vicious enjoyments for fifty years, but then what can you do with it?—what use can you put it to? Money can't save your infinitesimal soul; all the use that money can be put to is to purchase comfort and [begin page 190] enjoyment in this life—therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where is the use in accumulating cash? It won't do for you to say that you can use it to better purpose in furnishing a good table, and in charities, and in supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you people who have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that you stint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always feeble and hungry. And you never dare to laugh in the daytime for fear some poor wretch, seeing you in a good humor, will try to borrow a dollar of you; and in church you are always down on your knees when the contribution box comes around; and you always pay your debts in greenbacksⒶalteration in the MS, and never give the revenue officers a true statement of your income. Now you know all these things yourself, don't you? Very well, then, what is the use of your stringing out your miserable lives to a lean and withered old age? What is the use of your saving money that is so utterly worthless to you? In a word, why don't you go off somewhere and die, and not be always trying to seduce people into becoming as “ornery” and unloveable as you are yourselves, by your ceaseless and villainousⒶtextual note Ⓐalteration in the MS “moral statistics?” Now I don't approve of dissipation, and I don't indulge in it, either, but I haven't a particle ofⒶalteration in the MS Ⓐtextual note confidence in a man who has no redeeming petty vices whatever, and so I don't want to hear from you any more. I think you are the very same man who read me a long lecture, last week, about the degrading vice of smoking cigars, and then came back, in my absence, with your vile, reprehensible fire-proof gloves on, and carried off my beautiful parlor stove.
Simon Wheeler, Sonora.—The following simple and touching remarks and accompanying poem have just come to hand from the rich gold-mining region of Sonora:
To Mr. Mark Twain: The within parson, which I have sot to poettry under the name and style of “He Done His Level Best,” was one among the whitest men I ever see, and it ain't every man that knowed him that can find it in his heart to say he's glad the pore cuss is busted and gone home to the States. He was here in an early day, and he was the handyest man about takin holt of anything that come along you most ever see, I judge; he was a cheerful, stirrin cretur, always doin something, and no man can say he ever see him do anything by halvers. Preachin was his nateral [begin page 191] gait, but he warn't a man to lay back and twidle his thums because there didn't happen to be nothing doin in his own espeshial line—no sir, he was a man who would meander forth and stir up something for hisself. His last acts was to go his pile on “kings-and,” (calklatin to fill, but which he didn't fillⒺexplanatory note,) when there was a “flush” out agin him, and naterally, you see, he went under. And so, he was cleaned out, as you may say,Ⓐemendation and he struck the home-trail, cheerful but flat broke. I knowed this talonted man in Arkansaw, and if you would print this humbly tribute to his gorgis abillities, you would greatly obleege his onhappy friend.
Sonora, Southern Mines, June, 1865.
he done his level best.Was he a mining on the flat—
He done it with a zest;
Was he a leading of the choir—
He done his level best.
If he'd a reglar task to do,
He never took no rest;
Or if twas off-and-on—the same—
He done his level best.
If he was preachin on his beat,
He'd tramp from east to west,
And north to south—in cold and heat
He done his level best.
He'd yank a sinner outen (Hades*)
And land him with the blest—
Then snatch a prayer 'nⒶemendation waltz in again,
And do his level best.
He'd cuss and sing and howl and pray,
And dance and drink and jest,
And lie and steal—all one to him—
He done his level best.
Whate'er this man was sot to do,
He done it with a zest:
No matter what his contract was,
He'd do his level best.
*You observe that I have taken the liberty to alter a word for you, Simon—to tone you down a little, as it were. Your language was unnecessarily powerful. M. T. [begin page 192]
Verily, this man was gifted with “gorgis abillities,” and it is a happiness to me to embalm the memory of their lustre in these columns. If it were not that the poet crop is unusually large and rank in California this yearⒺexplanatory note, I would encourage you to continue writing, Simon—but as it is, perhaps it might be too risky in you to enter against so much opposition.
Inquirer wishes to know which is the best brand of smoking tobacco, and how it is manufactured. The most popular—mind I do not feel at liberty to give an opinion as to the best, and so I simply say the most popular—smoking tobacco is the miraculous conglomerate they call “KillickinickⒺexplanatory note.” It is composed of equal parts of tobacco stems, chopped straw, “old soldiersⒺexplanatory note,” fine shavings, oak leaves, dog-fennel, corn-shucks, sun-flower petals, outside leaves of the cabbage plant, and any refuse of any description whatever that costs nothing and will burn. After the ingredients are thoroughly mixed together, they are run through a chopping-machine.Ⓐalteration in the MS Ⓐtextual note The mass is then sprinkled with fragrant Scotch snuff, packed into various seductive shapes, labelled “Genuine Killickinick, from the old original manufactory at Richmond,” and soldⒶemendation to consumers at a dollar a pound. The choicest brands contain a double portion of “old soldiers,” and sell at a dollar and a half. “Genuine Turkish” tobacco contains a treble quantity of old soldiers, and is worth two or three dollars, according to the amount of service the said “old soldiers” have previously seen. N. B. This article is preferred by the Sultan of Turkey; his picture and autograph are on the label. Take a handful of “Killickinick,” crush it as fine as you can, and examine it closely, and you will find that you can make as good an analysis of it as I have done; you must not expect to discover any particles of genuine tobacco by this rough method, however—to do that, it will be necessary to take your specimen to the mint and subject it to a fire-assay. A good article of cheap tobacco is now made of chopped pine-straw and Spanish moss; it contains one “old soldier” to the ton, and is called “Fine Old German Tobacco.”Ⓐalteration in the MS
Anna Maria says as follows: “We have got such a nice literary societyⒺexplanatory note, O! you can't think! It is made up of members of our church, and we meet and read poetry and sketches and essays, and [begin page 193] such things—mostly original—in fact, we have got talent enough among ourselves, without having to borrow reading matter from books and newspapers. We met a few evenings since at a dwelling on Howard, between Seventh and Eighth, and ever so many things were read. It was a little dull, though, until a young gentleman, (who is a member of our church, and oh, so gifted!) unrolled a bundle of manuscript and read such a funny thing about “Love's BakeryⒺexplanatory note,” where they prepare young people for matrimony, and about a young man who was engaged to be married, and who had the small-pox, and the erysipelas, and lost one eye and got both legs broken, and one arm, and got the other arm pulled out by a carding-machine, and finally got so damaged that there was scarcely anything of him left for the young lady to marry. You ought to have been there to hear how well he read it, and how they all laughed. We went right to work and nominated him for the Presidency of the Society, and he only lost it by two votes.”
Yes, dear, I remember that “such a funny thing” which he read—I wrote it myself, for The Californian, last October. But as he read it well, I forgive him—I can't bear to hear a good thingⒶemendation read badly. You had better keep an eye on that gifted young man, though, or he will be treating you to Washington's Farewell Address in manuscript the first thing you know—and if that should pass unchallenged, nothing in the world could save him from the Presidency.
charming simplicity.
I once read the following paragraph in a newspaper:
“Powerful Metaphor.—A Western editor, speaking of a quilldriving cotemporary, says 'his intellect is so dense that it would take the augerⒶemendation of common sense longer to bore into it than it would to bore through Mont Blanc with a boiled carrot!””
I have found that man. And I have found him—not in StocktonⒺexplanatory note—not in Congress—not even in the Board of Education—but in the editorial sanctum of the Gold Hill News Ⓔexplanatory note. Hear him:
“Byron Ⓐemendation Busted.—The most fearful exhibition of literary ignorance—to say nothing of literary judgment—that we have had occasion to notice in many a year, is presented by the San Francisco Californian Ⓐemendation, a professedly literary journal. It is among [begin page 194] the ‘Answers to Correspondents.’Ⓐemendation Lord Byron's magnificent and universally admired verses on the Destruction of Sennacherib, are sent from Dutch Flat to the Californian Ⓐemendation, and are there not recognized, but denounced as a ‘lot of doggerel.’Ⓐemendation Ye Gods! Perhaps the editor will try to get out of his ‘fix’Ⓐemendation by saying it was all in fun—that it is a Dutch Nix joke! Read the comments:
“'Melton Ⓐemendation Mowbray, Dutch Flat.—This correspondent sends usⒶemendation a lot ofⒶemendation doggerel, and says it has been regarded as very good in Dutch Flat. I give a specimen verse:Ⓐemendation
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of his spears shone like stars on the sea,Ⓐemendation
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.’Ⓐemendation
“'ThereⒶemendation, that will do. That may be very good Dutch Flat poetry, but it won't do in the metropolis. It is too smooth and blubbery; it reads like buttermilk gurgling from a jug. What the people should have, is something spirited—something like ‘Johnny comes marching home.’ However, keep on practicing, and you may succeed yet. There is genius in you, but too much blubber.'”Ⓐemendation
Come, now, friend, about what style of joke would suit your capacity?—because we are anxious to come within the comprehension of all. Try a good old one; for instance: “Jones meets Smith; says Smith, 'I'm glad it's raining, Jones, because it'll start everything out of the ground.' ‘Oh, Lord, I hope not,’ says Jones, ‘because then it would start my first wife out!’ ” How's that? Does that “bore through?”
Since writing the above, I perceive that the Flag has fallen into the wake of the News Ⓔexplanatory note, and got sold by the same rather glaring burlesque that disposed of its illustrious predecessor at such an exceedingly cheap rate.
Literary Connoisseur asks “Who is the author of these fine lines?
‘Let dogs delight to bark and bite,For God hath made them so!Ⓔexplanatory note’ ”Ⓐemendation
Here is a man gone into ecstasies of admiration over a nursery rhyme! Truly, the wonders of this new position of mine do never cease. The longer I hold it the more I am astonished, and every new applicant for information, who comes to me, leaves me more [begin page 195] helplessly stunned than the one who went before him. No, I don't know who wrote those “fine lines,” but I expect old Wat's-'is-name, who wrote old Watt's hymns, is the heavy gun you are after. However, it may be a bad guess, and if you find it isn't him, why then lay it on Tupper. That is my usual method. It is awkward to betray ignorance. Therefore, when I come across anything in the poetry line, which is particularly mild and aggravating, I always consider it pretty safe to lay it on Tupper. The policy is subject to accidents, of course, but then it works pretty well, and I hit oftener than I miss. A “connoisseur” should never be in doubt about anything. It is ruinous. I will give you a few hints. Attribute all the royal blank verse, with a martial ring to it, to Shakspeare; all the grand ponderous ditto, with a solemn lustre as of holiness about it, to Milton; all the ardent love poetry, tricked out in affluent imagery, to Byron; all the scouring, dashing, descriptive warrior rhymes to Scott; all the sleepy, tiresome, rural stuff, to Thomson and his eternal Seasons; all the genial, warm-heartedⒶemendation jolly Scotch poetry, to Burns; all the tender, broken-heartedⒶemendation song-verses to Moore; all the broken-English poetry to Chaucer or Spenser—whichever occurs to you first; all the heroic poetry, about the impossible deeds done before Troy, to Homer; all the nauseating rebellion mush-and-milk about young fellows who have come home to die—just before the battle, motherⒺexplanatory note—to George F. Root and kindred spirits; all the poetry that everybody admires and appreciates, but nobody ever reads or quotes from, to Dryden, Cowper and Shelley; all the grave-yard poetry to Elegy Gray or WolfeⒺexplanatory note, indiscriminately; all the poetry that you can't understand, to Emerson; all the harmless old platitudes, delivered with a stately and oppressive pretense of originality, to Tupper, and all the “Anonymous” poetry to yourself. Bear these rules in mind, and you will pass muster as a connoisseur; as long as you can talk glibly about the “styles” of authors, you will get as much credit as if you were really acquainted with their works. Throw out a mangled French phrase occasionally, and you will pass for an accomplished man, and a Latin phrase dropped now and then will gain you the reputation of being a learned one. Many a distinguished “connoisseur” in belles lettres and classic erudition travels on the same capital I have advanced you in this rather [begin page 196] lengthy paragraph. Make a note of that “Anonymous” suggestion—never let a false modesty deter you from “cabbaging” anything you find drifting about without an owner. I shall publish a volume of poems, shortly, over my signature, which became the “children of my fancy” in this unique way.
Etiquetticus, Monitor Silver Mines Ⓔexplanatory note.—“If a lady and gentleman are riding on a mountain trail, should the lady precede the gentleman, or the gentleman precede the lady?” It is not a matter of politeness at all—it is a matter of the heaviest mule. The heavy mule should keep the lower side, so as to brace himself and stop the light one should he lose his footing. But to my notion you are worrying yourself a good deal more than necessary about etiquette, up there in the snow belt. You had better be skirmishing for bunch-grassⒶemendation to feed your mule on, now that the snowy season is nearly ready to set in.
The first printing in the Californian 3 (17 June 1865): 4 (Cal) is copy-text for all but the item Mark Twain quotes from the Gold Hill News, 13 June 1865, p. 2 (GHN), which is copy-text from 193.34 through 194.19. Collation suggests that a clipping of GHN was part of Mark Twain's manuscript: a dozen or so minor changes and corrections, most of them in the system of quotation marks, were presumably introduced by Mark Twain or his compositor and are here adopted as needed emendations of GHN from Cal. Since in this case all variants between Cal and GHN are listed in the record of emendations, no historical collation for these texts has been supplied. Copies: Bancroft; PH from Yale (Cal); PH from Bancroft (GHN).
Reprintings and Revisions. Mark Twain revised clippings of this sketch and four similar sketches from the Californian (nos. 105–109) in the Yale Scrapbook, rejecting portions of each and revising others to assemble a composite sketch for JF1. None of the Californian clipping for the present sketch survives in the scrapbook, but it is apparent that a clipping for all but the portion following “Tobacco” (192.34) once occupied pages 22A and 23; the remainder of the sketch was evidently never in the scrapbook. Mark Twain revised the clipping on these pages before it was peeled away to serve as printer's copy for JF1. A reconstruction of the missing portions as Mark Twain revised them helps determine what changes he made (see figures 9–11 in the textual introduction, volume 1, pp. 522–524, and figure 107 below). For details of the JF1 composite text and its subsequent reprinting and revision, see the textual commentary for “Burlesque ‘Answers to Correspondents’ ” (no. 201). Only the alterations made by Mark Twain in the Yale Scrapbook are recorded here, where they can be keyed to the complete text of the original Californian sketch.