Three Passages from the Manuscript
Mark Twain’s Revisions
Three passages from the newly discovered first half of the manuscript, MS1, are reproduced here because of the intrinsic interest of the revisions they contain.
Typically, Mark Twain revised his original handwritten pages, both as he was composing them and as he reviewed them, sometimes more than once. He eventually had this revised manuscript typed, chiefly so that he could continue the process of revision on the typescript. None of these revised typescripts is known to survive for Huckleberry Finn. The process of revision and correction might also continue on the proofs of the first edition (of which only a limited number survive, see p. 427), but, with time growing short and the illustrations already in place on the proofs, few changes would have been made at that late stage. Mark Twain never revised Huckleberry Finn after its first publication.
The first passage transcribed here, Jim’s “ghost” story, was originally part of what became chapter 9, but it was omitted from the first edition. Before Mark Twain had the passage typed, he worked carefully through it using pencil to revise Jim’s dialect (the draft itself is in black ink). He doubtless also revised the typed copy of this passage, but because he decided to withdraw it before publication, and because none of that typescript survives, we have no record of those revisions. Except for the “raft chapter” (see the explanatory note to 107.1–123.20), this is the single longest passage cut out of Mark Twain’s text. It was finally published in 1995 as “Jim and the Dead Man” in the New Yorker and was included in the 1996 Random House edition of Huckleberry Finn (SLC 1995; SLC 1996b).
The second passage, the beginning of chapter 19, is Huck’s famous description of sunrise on the river. The manuscript itself has relatively little revision, but the published passage shows that dramatic changes must have been made on the typescript and possibly on the proof.
The third passage, from the camp meeting episode in chapter 20, was substantially revised on the manuscript and then, as the published text reveals, revised even more extensively on the typescript and possibly on the proof.
[begin page 528]
Transcription
The method of transcription used for all three selections is adapted from the “Guide to Editorial Practice” in Mark Twain’s Letters (see L5 , 695–722). Canceled text is shown with a horizontal rule (“candle”) or, for solitary characters, a slash mark (“&” or “,”). Inserted words or characters appear enclosed by carets (“lantern”); solitary inserted characters appear with a single sublinear caret (“I”). Words that Mark Twain revised internally are transcribed showing the canceled and the revised form separately (“ghoses ghosts” rather than the more literal but less legible “ghose ts”). Where Mark Twain interlined an alternate word, without canceling his original choice, a slash mark separates the two readings (“scared/scairt”). If he inadvertently omitted a word, it is supplied within square brackets (“he” at 534.32). If Mark Twain inadvertently wrote the same word twice (“& &” at 554.11), the error is corrected because the cause of the error (the line break in the original) is not preserved. Words or characters that Mark Twain misformed, then canceled, are not transcribed. When a compound word is hyphenated at the end of a line, the spelling printed here is Mark Twain’s usual or invariant spelling of that compound or similar compounds (“a-yelpin’ ” at 536.37). When the end of a sentence fell just short of the right margin in his manuscript, Mark Twain often used a brief dash-like mark after the period to fill up the line (“village.” at 534.26). He expected his typist to ignore these marks because their sole function was to fill up space, not to signal a pause. They are therefore omitted from the transcription.
Although for the first passage we have no record of the revisions Mark Twain made on the typescript, for the second and third passages we do: it is the text of the first edition. His revisions are identified by comparing the manuscript with the first edition which was set from the revised typescript, now lost. Any differences between them must result from Mark Twain’s pen, except when it is more likely that they were volunteered by the typist or typesetter (such as first edition “by-and-by” for manuscript’s invariable “by and by”). So for passages two and three we transcribe the handwritten manuscript with its internal revisions on lefthand pages, and provide a parallel text on righthand pages that is essentially a reconstruction of Mark Twain’s typed copy of the manuscript with all the revisions he added on typescript or proof. In these reconstructions, canceled readings appear with a horizontal rule (“as if”); additions or substitutions appear with gray shading (“like”). The ampersand (&) of the manuscript is rendered as “and” because Mark Twain expected the typist to expand abbreviations. But otherwise, if differences between the manuscript and the first edition were manifestly imposed by the typist or the typesetter, the manuscript reading appears unchanged (“by and by” instead of first edition [begin page 529] “by-and-by”). For a complete record of all variants between the manuscript and the first American edition, as well as the excerpts in the Century Magazine, see Emendations and Historical Collation.
All of the manuscript pages in this appendix are reproduced from the original manuscript in the Mark Twain Room of the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library (NBuBE), William H. Loos, Curator. They are reproduced from digital scans prepared for “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”: The Buffalo & Erie County Public Library CD-ROM Edition, edited by Victor A. Doyno.
A Passage Deleted from Chapter 9
Jim’s “ghost” story filled fifteen and one-half manuscript pages and originally followed the paragraph ending at 60.9 (“Well, . . . chile.”; MS1a, 198.16–214.4). Mark Twain wrote these pages in black ink during the summer of 1876 as part of the first long stint on his novel (MS1a, 1–446), and he subsequently made extensive changes in pencil to Jim’s dialect. The story remained part of the text after he had the manuscript typed in 1882–83, but he later deleted it, probably in the spring of 1884, during production of the book (see the introduction, p. 712). It was probably among the passages that young Susy Clemens recalled hearing read aloud by her father:
Papa read “Hucleberry Finn” to us in manuscript just before it came out, & then he would leave parts of it with Mamma to expergate, . . . and sometimes Clara & I would be sitting with Mamma while she was looking the manuscript over, & I remember so well, with what pangs of regret we used to see her turn down the leaves of the pages, which meant, that some delightfully dreadful part must be scratched out. And I remember one part pertickularly that Clara & I used to delight in, which was perfectly fascinating it was so dreadful, & oh with what dispair we saw mamma turn down the leaf on which it was written, we thought the book would be almost ruined without it. (OSC 1885–86, 87–88, in OSC 1985, 188–89)
Clemens admitted in 1906 that it was his practice to include a “dreadful” passage in his manuscript just to elicit the family reaction, and “not with any hope or expectation that it would get by the expergator alive” (SLC 1906?, [9–10], in OSC 1985, 189–90). Still, the care he took in writing and revising the “ghost” story suggests that he originally hoped to publish it in Huckleberry Finn. But by 1883 or 1884, he apparently felt the passage no longer fit the story as it had evolved since 1876.
Between 1866 and 1897, Clemens made at least four notes to himself about the core anecdote he relied on for Jim’s story (all are in CU-MARK). On an undated page of notes in purple ink (probably written in the late 1860s or early 1870s) he listed a dozen ideas for stories, including “Uncle Jim & the corpse.” In July 1866, bound from the Sandwich Islands to San Francisco, he wrote in his notebook, “Jim Lampton & the dead man in Dr. McDowell’s College” ( N&J1 , 136). Ten years after Huckleberry Finn was published, in November 1895 while on the trip he later described in Following the Equator, Clemens wrote in his notebook: “Put in uncle Jim Lampton’s adventure with the corpse in the dissecting room of Mc-Dowell’s college at midnight” (Notebook 34, TS p. 35). Then again in July [begin page 532] 1897, he noted simply, “Jim Lampton dissecting room” (Notebook 41, TS p. 40).
James Andrew Hays Lampton (1824–79) was the much younger half-brother of Clemens’s mother, Jane Lampton Clemens (1803–90). He lived next to the Clemenses in Hannibal in about 1845 or 1846, before moving to St. Louis to study at McDowell Medical College. He then settled in New London, just south of Hannibal, but practiced medicine only briefly before abandoning the profession, in about 1849, because he could not stand the sight of blood. While Clemens was in the West in the early 1860s, scattered references to Lampton, then in St. Louis along with Clemens’s mother and sister, show that they were clearly friends and kept in touch. Clemens remembered him as a “good fellow, very handsome, full of life” and as a “young doctor without practice, poor” (SLC 1897b, 13–14; Inds , 98, 329–30; L1 , 15 n. 7, 130, 153, 248, 251).
McDowell College, the first medical school in St. Louis and the first west of the Mississippi, was founded in 1840 by the charismatic and eccentric anatomist, Joseph Nash McDowell. It was housed originally in a brick building in the open land southwest of the city, and its facilities included a laboratory, amphitheater, and two dissecting rooms. In 1847 the college became the Medical Department of Missouri State University and moved nearby to a new building, a massive three-story stone structure. Jim’s description—“ ‘Dat college was a powerful big brick building, three stories high, en stood all by hersef in a big open place out to de edge er de village.’ ”—appears to draw on elements of both structures (Wild and Thomas, 59–60, Plate XII; Norwood, 353–54; Stevens, 2:421–25; Scharf, 1:417–18, 2:1526–27, 1544).
Jim’s midnight errand to the dissecting room at the behest of his white master, a medical student, opens a window on the real relations between blacks and nineteenth-century American medical schools, presumably as Clemens learned about them from his uncle Jim Lampton. Many medical schools used blacks as janitors and porters, and it was common for them to accompany students and doctors on nocturnal grave-robbing forays, often among the graves of the recently deceased indigent. Partly for that reason, the cadavers used for instructional dissection were themselves likely to be black. In chapter 15 of The Gilded Age, Mark Twain’s coauthor, Charles Dudley Warner, acknowledged this fact when he described Ruth Bolton’s evening visit by candlelight to the dissecting room of her medical college. Ruth finds the “frightful” corpse of a black man, lying sheeted on a long table. Warner concludes: “the repulsive black face seemed to wear a scowl that said, ‘Haven’t you yet done with the outcast, persecuted black man, but you must now haul him from his grave, and send even your women to dismember his body?’ ” (SLC 1873–74, 146–48; French, 61; Plutzky; Shultz, 39; Blanton, 70; Norwood, 400).
The scarcity of cadavers given to or obtained legally by medical schools [begin page 533] meant that most cadavers were obtained illegally. Mark Twain was well aware of the traffic in illegal corpses: in chapter 9 of Tom Sawyer he described a late night grave robbing by “young Dr. Robinson,” Muff Potter, and Injun Joe ( ATS , 74). He probably knew that Joseph Nash McDowell advocated and practiced body snatching in Missouri in the 1840s. And he may well have known—from local report or from Jim Lampton—of the vandalizing of St. Louis Medical College, in February 1844, by an enraged mob after two boys found body fragments from the school’s dissecting room. In the 1870s and 1880s, when he was writing Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, there were numerous newspaper reports of body snatchings, including such notorious cases as the 1878 theft of the body of John Scott Harrison, a son of the late president William Henry Harrison, by the Ohio Medical College.
Professional grave robbers typically filled large orders for both local and distant medical schools, well into the 1890s, by robbing graveyards for the poor, and by other illegal means. One detail of Mark Twain’s account indicates that he was familiar with this trade: Jim describes “ ‘a table ’bout forty foot long, down de middle er de room, wid fo’ dead people on it, layin’ on dey backs wid dey knees up en sheets over ’em.’ ” The raised knees suggest that the corpses were obtained illegally, for to avoid detection, grave robbers embalmed their corpses before shipping them, not in coffins, but in small boxes or barrels which required that the knees be flexed (Shultz, 34–35, 38–39, 59–66, 90–91; Blanton, 71–72; Doyno 1996b, 374).
Some details of Jim’s description—the cadaver’s eyes snapping open and the sudden movement of the toes and legs—are not explicable as normal signs of decomposition. They are, however, typical features mentioned in the voluminous literature about vampires and revenants, which derived in part from misunderstandings of normal postmortem changes. Disinterred bodies were sometimes found to have changed their position or appearance in ways that seemed clearly animate, but were actually the result of movement caused by decompositional gases.
The corpse in Mark Twain’s story, however, does not seem to be decomposed: Jim even comments that it looks “pretty natural.” In the absence of refrigeration, cadavers were necessarily dissected as soon as possible after death. If dissection were delayed, the corpse would be injected with a concoction of beeswax, tallow, resin, and turpentine (the most popular formula) which arrested decay and preserved a natural appearance. Jim is clearly dealing with an illegally acquired, embalmed corpse whose startling movements have a perfectly rational explanation (“Mars. William said I didn’t prop him good wid de rollers”) (Timbs, 429; Barber, 41–43, 102–9, 117–19; Ross, 3–5; Shultz, 18–19; medical information courtesy of Alameda County Deputy Coroner Kevin Hinkle and the Pathology Department of the University of California at San Francisco).
Jim’s story is not a “real sure-’nough” ghost story, as Huck ultimately [begin page 534] points out, but its grotesque effect and grisly humor are heightened by the realistic setting and the grounding in contemporary medical school practice (Shultz, 85–86; Blanton, 71–72; Flexner, 221–24, 278–79; Long, 97; Scharf, 2:1545, 1835–36; see Doyno 1996b, 372–76).
[begin page 530]
“I been in a storm here once before, with Tom Sawyer & Jo Harper, Jim. It was a storm like this, too—last summer. We didn’t know about this place, & so we got soaked. The lightning tore a big tree all to flinders.1 Why don’t lightning cast a shadow, Jim?”
“Well, I reckon it do, but I don’t know.”
“Well, it don’t. I know. The sun does, & a candle does, but the lightning don’t.” Ⓐalteration in the MS Tom Sawyer says it don’t, & it’s so.”
“Sho, child, I reckon you’s mistaken ’bout dat. Gimme de gun—I’s gwyne to see.”
So he stood up the gun in the door, & held it, & when it lightened the gun didn’t cast any shadow. Jim says:
“Well, dat’s mighty cur’us—dat’s oncommon cur’us. Now dey say ghosts aⒶalteration in the MS ghos’ don’t cas’ no shadder. Why is dat, you reckon? Of course de reason is dat ghoses ghosts Ⓐalteration in the MS is made out of out’n Ⓐalteration in the MS lightnin’, or else de lightnin’ is made out’n ghoses ghosts Ⓐalteration in the MS—but I don’t know Ⓐalteration in the MS which it is. I wisht I knowed which it is, Huck.”
“Well I do, too; but I reckon there ain’t no way to find out. Did you ever see a ghost, Jim?”
“Has I ever seed a ghos’? Well I reckon I has.”
“O, tell me about it, Jim—tell me about it.”
“De storm’s a rippin’ an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS a tearin’, an’ en a carryin’Ⓐalteration in the MS on so, a body can’t hardly talk, but I reckon I’ll try. Long time ago, when I was ’bout sixteen year old, my young Mars. William, dat’s dead, now, was a stugent in a doctor college in de village whah we lived den. Dat college was a powerful big brick building, & threeⒶalteration in the MS stories high, & en Ⓐalteration in the MS stood all by herself hersef Ⓐalteration in the MS in a big open place out to de edge of er Ⓐalteration in the MS de village. Well, one night in de middle of winter young Mars. William he tole me to go to de college, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS go up stairs to de dissectin’ room on de second flo’, & en Ⓐalteration in the MS warm up a dead man dat was dah on de table, & en Ⓐalteration in the MS git him soft so he can cut him up—”
“What for, Jim?”
“I don’t do Ⓐalteration in the MS know—see if he can find suffin sumfin Ⓐalteration in the MS in him, maybe. Anyways, dat’s what he tole me. An’ En Ⓐalteration in the MS he tole me to wait dah tell he come. So I takes a candle, lantern Ⓐalteration in the MS & en Ⓐalteration in the MS starts out acrost de town. My, but it was a-blowin’ & an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS a-sleetin’ an’ en coldⒶalteration in the MS! Dey wan’t nobody stirrin [begin page 535] in de streets an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS I could scasely shove along agin de wind. It was most mos’ Ⓐalteration in the MS midnight, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS dreadful dark.
“I was mighty glad to git to de place, child. I onlocked de do’ & an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS went up star stairsⒶalteration in the MS to de dissectin’ room. Dat room was sixty foot long an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS twenty-five foot wide; an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS all along de wall, on bofe sides, was de long black gowns a-hangin’, dat de stugents wears when dey’s a-choppin’ up de dead people. Well, I goes a swingin’ de lantern along, & en Ⓐalteration in the MS de shadders of er Ⓐalteration in the MS dem gowns went to spreadin’ out & en Ⓐalteration in the MS drawin’ in, along de wall, & en Ⓐalteration in the MS it scart scairt Ⓐalteration in the MS me. It looked like dey was swingin’ dey han’s to git ’em warm. Well, I never looked at ’em no mo’; but it seemed like dey was a-doin’ it behind my back jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS de same.
“Dey was a table ’bout forty foot long, down de middle of er Ⓐalteration in the MS de room, wid four fo’ Ⓐalteration in the MS dead people on it, layin’ on dey backs wid dey knees up & en Ⓐalteration in the MS sheets over ’em. You could see de shapes under de sheets. Well, Mars. William he tole me to warm up de big man wid de black whiskers. So I unkivered one, & an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS he didn’t have no whiskers. But he had his eyes wide open, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS I kuv kiveredⒶalteration in the MS him up quick, I bet you. De next one was sich a gashly sight dat I most mos’ Ⓐalteration in the MS let de lantern drap. Well, I sh skippedⒶalteration in the MS one carcass, an’ en wentⒶalteration in the MS for de las’ one. I raise’ up de sheet an’ en IⒶalteration in the MS says, all right, boss, Ⓐalteration in the MS you’s de chap I’s after arter Ⓐalteration in the MS. He had de black whiskers an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS a wasⒶalteration in the MS a rattlin’ big man, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS looked wicked like a pirate. He was nakedⒶalteration in the MS 2—dey all was. He was a layin’ on round sticks—rollers. iust in his shroud—do’ it was a pooty cold night Ⓐalteration in the MS 3 I rolled him I took de sheet off’n him an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS rolled him along feet fust, to de end en’ Ⓐalteration in the MS of er Ⓐalteration in the MS de table before befo’ Ⓐalteration in the MS de fire place. His legs laigs Ⓐalteration in the MS was spread open apart Ⓐalteration in the MS an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS his knees was cocked up some; so when I up-ended him on de end en’ Ⓐalteration in the MS of er Ⓐalteration in the MS de table, he sot up dah lookin pretty natural, wid his feet out an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS his big toes stickin’ up like he was warmin’ hissef. I propped him up wid de rollers, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS den I spread de sheet Ⓐalteration in the MS over his back an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS over his head to help warm him, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS den when I was a tyin’ de corners under his chin, by jings he opened his eyes! I let go an’ en stoodⒶalteration in the MS off an’ en lookedⒶalteration in the MS at him, a-feelin’ feelin’ Ⓐalteration in the MS mighty shaky. Well, he didn’t look at nothin’ nuthin Ⓐalteration in the MS particular, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS didn’t do nuffin’, so I knowed he was good an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS dead, yit.
“But I couldn’t stan’ dem eyes, you know. It made me feel all-overish, [begin page 536] you know, Ⓐalteration in the MS just jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS to look at ’em. So I pulled de sheet clear clerr Ⓐalteration in the MS down over his face & en Ⓐalteration in the MS under his chin, an’ en tiedⒶalteration in the MS it hard— an’ en denⒶalteration in the MS dah he sot, all naked in front, wid his head like a big snow-ball, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS de sheet a-kiverin’ his back an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS fallin down on de table behind. So dah he sot, wid his legs laigs Ⓐalteration in the MS spread out, but blame it he didn’t look no better’n what he did befo’, his head was so awful, somehow.
“But dem eyes eyes Ⓐalteration in the MS was kivered up, so I reckoned I’d let him stan’ at dat, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS not try to improve him up no mo’. Well, I too stoop’Ⓐalteration in the MS down between his legs laigs Ⓐalteration in the MS on de hathstone, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS took de candle out’n de lantern an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS held/hilt Ⓐalteration in the MS it in my han’ so as to makeⒶalteration in the MS more mo’ Ⓐalteration in the MS light. Dey was some embers in de fire place, but de wood was all to de other end yuther en’ Ⓐalteration in the MS of er Ⓐalteration in the MS de room. While Whils’ Ⓐalteration in the MS I was a stoopin’ dah, gittin’ ready to go after arter Ⓐalteration in the MS de wood, de candle flickered, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS I thought de ole man moved his legs. laigs. Ⓐalteration in the MS It kind o’ kind er kinder Ⓐalteration in the MS made me shiver. I put out my han’ an en Ⓐalteration in the MS felt of o’ Ⓐalteration in the MS his leg laig Ⓐalteration in the MS dat was poked along pas’ my lef’ jaw, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS it was cold as ice. So I reckoned he didn’t move. Den I felt of o’ Ⓐalteration in the MS de leg laig Ⓐalteration in the MS dat was poked past pas’Ⓐalteration in the MS my right jaw, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS it was powerful cold, too. You see I was a stoopin’ down right betwixt betwix’ Ⓐalteration in the MS ’em.
“Well, pretty soon I thought I see his toes move; dey was jus jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS in front of er Ⓐalteration in the MS me, on bofe sides. I tell you, honey, I was gittin’ oneasy. You see dat was a great big old ramblin’ bildin’, an’ en nobodyⒶalteration in the MS but me in it, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS dat man over me wid dat sheet roun’ his head/ f over his face Ⓐalteration in the MS,4 an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS de wind a wailin’ roun’ de place like sperits dat was in trouble, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS de sleet a-drivin’ agin’ de glass; an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS den de clock struck twelve in de village, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS it was so fur away, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS de wind choke up de soun’ so dat it only soun’ like a moan—dat’s all. Well, thinks I, I wisht I was out of out’n Ⓐalteration in the MS dis; what is gwyne to become o’ er Ⓐalteration in the MS me?— an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS dis feller’s a-movin’ his toes, I knows it—I can/kin Ⓐalteration in the MS see ’em move— an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS I can kin Ⓐalteration in the MS jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS feel dem eyes of er Ⓐalteration in the MS his’n an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS see dat ole dumplin’ head done up in de sheet, an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS—
“Well, sir, jus jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS at dat minute, down he comes, down he comes, Ⓐalteration in the MS right a-straddle of er Ⓐalteration in the MS my neck wid his cold legs, laigs, Ⓐalteration in the MS & en Ⓐalteration in the MS kicked de candle out!”
“My! What did you do, Jim?”
“Do? Well I never done nuffin’; nuffin’,Ⓐalteration in the MS only I jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS got up &/en Ⓐalteration in the MS heeled it in de dark. I warn’t gwyne to wait to fine out what he wanted. No sir; I jist jis’ Ⓐalteration in the MS split down star stairsⒶalteration in the MS an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS linked it home a-yelpin’ every jump.”
“What did your Mars. William say?”
[begin page 538] “He said I was a fool. He went dah an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS found de dead man on de flo’ all comfortable, & an’/en Ⓐalteration in the MS took an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS chopped him up. Dod rot him, I wisht I’d a had a hack at him.”
“What made him hop on to your neck, Jim?”
“Well, Mars. William said I’d I Ⓐalteration in the MS didn’t prop him good wid de rollers. But I don’t know. It warn’t no way for a dead man to act, anyway/nohow Ⓐalteration in the MS; it might a scared/scairt Ⓐalteration in the MS some people to death.”
“But Jim, he warn’t a rightlyⒶalteration in the MS a ghost—he was only a dead man. Didn’t you ever see a real sure-’nough ghost?”
“You bet I has—lots of ’em.”
“Well, tell me about them, Jim.”
“All right, I will, some time; but the de Ⓐalteration in the MS storm’s a-slackin’ up, now, so we better go an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS tend to de lines an’ en Ⓐalteration in the MS bait ’em agin.”
[begin page 537]
A Revised Passage from Chapter 19
Chapter 19 begins with this passage, first drafted in 1880 (MS1b, 498.1–514.16), then revised extensively on the typescript in 1883–84. Huck’s “rhapsody” about life on the river, as Walter Blair called it, is one of the most famous passages in Huckleberry Finn (Blair 1960a, 258). In 1957, Leo Marx analyzed its style to explain how the excellence of Huckleberry Finn “follows from the inspired idea of having the western boy tell his own story in his own idiom”:
There are countless descriptions in literature of the sun coming up across a body of water, but it is inconceivable that a substitute exists for this one. It is unique in diction, rhythm, and tone of voice. . . . The scene is described in concrete details, but they come to us as subjective sense impressions. All the narrator’s senses are alive, and through them a high light is thrown upon the preciousness of the concrete facts. Furthermore, Huck is not . . . committed to any abstract conception of the scene. He sets out merely to tell how he and Jim put in their time. Because he has nothing to “prove” there is room in his account for all the facts. Nothing is fixed, absolute, or perfect. The passage gains immensely in verisimilitude from his repeated approximations. . . . Both subject and object are alive; the passage has more in common with a motion picture than a landscape painting.
. . . Much of the superior power of Huckleberry Finn must be ascribed to the sound of the voice we hear. It is the voice of the boy experiencing the event. Of course no one ever really spoke such concentrated poetry, but the illusion that we are hearing the spoken word is an important part of the total illusion of reality. . . .
. . . The vernacular method liberated Sam Clemens. When he looked at the river through Huck’s eyes he was suddenly free of certain arid notions of what a writer should write. It would have been absurd to have had Huck Finn describe the Mississippi as a sublime landscape painting. . . .
. . . Clemens not only fashioned a vital style, he sustained it. Its merit was the product not so much of technical virtuosity as of the kinds of truth to which it gave access. (Marx 1957, 129, 138–40, 143)
For further, similar analysis, see also Henry Nash Smith 1958a, xxv–xxvi, Hearn 2001, 201–5, and Angell).
The discovery of the first half of the manuscript in 1990 provided the first opportunity to compare how Mark Twain conceived the passage originally with how he revised and ultimately published it. One surprise was how many of the stylistic virtues Marx and others identified were achieved only by patient revision: the “vernacular” details of “bull-frogs a-cluttering,” breaking the otherwise total silence, and of rotting fish on the shore, for example, were clearly added on the typescript. The revisions show that Clemens was not “suddenly free” when he looked at the Mississippi [begin page 540] through Huck’s eyes: the truly vernacular style had to be achieved in stages and took, perhaps, more “technical virtuosity” than Marx or others suspected.
Revision occurred in two stages, designated here as: Manuscript Text—on lefthand pages, Mark Twain’s 1880 manuscript draft with its internal revisions; and Final Text—on righthand pages, that same revised passage as it was typed and then further revised in 1883 and 1884, with possibly some changes also made on proof. These two stages are published here, side by side, for the first time.
[begin page 541]
Manuscript Text
Mark Twain’s first draft with his revisions
CHAP.
Two or three days & nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet & smooth & lovely. Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile & a half wide; we run, nights, & laid up & hid, daytimes; soon as day night was no m most gone, we would quit stopped navigating, & tied up—nearly always in the dead water under a tow-head; & then cut young cottonwoods & willows & hide the raft with them. But I’ll tell what we done & what we saw for one day, & night, & that will do for all—for all the days & nights was about alike.
Well, we hid in a towhead
Then we set out the lines. S Next we slid into the river & had a swim, so as to freshen up & cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, & watched the daylight come. Not a sound, anywheres—perfectly still—just as if the whole world was dead asleep. The first thing to see, looking away across the water, was a kind of a dim, dull line—that was the forest on ’tother t’other side—you couldn’t make anything else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, & wasn’t black, any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so far away—trading scows, & such things— things; & long, black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear the screak of a sweep, or jumbled sounds of voices, it was so still, & sounds traveled so far; now you could begin to see the ruffled streak on the water that the current from breaking past a snag makes; next, you would see the lightest & whitest mist curling up from the water; pretty soon the east reddens up, then the river reddens, & maybe you make out a little log cabin in the edge of the forest, away yonder on the bank on other t’other side of the river; then the nice breeze would spring up, & come fanning you from over the water, so cool & fresh, & so sweet to smell, on account of the woods & the flowers; next you’d have the full day, & everything shining in the sun, & the song-birds just agoing it!
A little smoke couldn’t be noticed, now, so we would take some fish off the lines, & cook up a hot breakfast. After we had a had a smoke, we would watch the awful lonesomeness of the river, & kind of dream along, & be happy, not talking much, & by & by nod off to sleep. Wake up, by & by, & look to see what done it, & maybe see a steamboat, coughing along up stream, so far off towards the other side that she didn’t seem to belong to this world at l all, hardly; then for about an hour there wouldn’t be a sound on the water, nor a solitary moving thing, as far as you could see—just solid Sunday & lonesomeness. Next you’d see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, & maybe a man on it, chopping; you’d see the axe flash, & come down—nary a sound, any more than if it had sunk into butter; you’d see that axe go up again, & by the time it was above the man’s head, then you’d hear the sound, sharp & clean—it had took all that time to travel over the water. So we would put in the day; dozing, dreaming, & listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, & the rafts & things that went by were was beating tin pans to warn steamboats to keep off & not run over them. Once A scow or a raft went by so close to us that we heard them talking & laughing—heard them just as plain as if they had been right at our noses; only five steps off; but we couldn’t see the faintest sign of them; it made me feel crawly, it was so like go ghots or spirits ghosts or spirits fluttering talking l & laughing in the air; & the voices drifted off & faded out, just the same as if they had been on the wing. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says, ¶ “No, spirits wouldn’t say, ‘Dern the derned fog.’ ”
Soon as it was night, out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle, we let her alone, & let her float wherever s the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes & dangled our legs in the water (we was al & talked about religion all kinds of things—we was always naked, day & night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us—the new clothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, & besides I didn’t go much on clothes anyway.
Well, sometimes we’d have that whole monstrous river all to ourselves, for hours. Yonder was the dim banks & the islands away off across acrost the water; & now & then a spark—which was a candle in some cabin window—some family was at home, there, and they could see our lantern, of course, & so it was kind of sociable-like, & friendly; & w sometimes, away down the river, or away up it, we could see a spark or two—on a raft or a scow, you know; & maybe we would just hear the faintest scraping of a fiddle or sound of a song coming over the water from one of those crafts. Lordly, Lordy, its it is lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky, up there, all sprinkled thick with stars, & we used to lay on our backs & look up at them, & discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they was made, a purpose but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could have laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable & natural, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it was plain enough it could be done. We used to watch the falling stars, too, & see them streak down the sky & trail their sparky tails behind them. Jim reckoned they had got spoiled & was flung out of the nest.
About once or twice a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, away over on t’other side, like a long string of glow-worms, & now & then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimneys, & they would trail off & rain down in the river & look awful pretty; then the boat would turn a corner & her light would wink out & her pow-wow die down & leave the big river all to us again; & by & by the wash of her waves would travel to us, long after she was gone, & joggle our raft a bit, & after that we would have the dead quiet again. once more.
Final Text
Mark Twain’s final revisions on typescript or proof
CHAP. Chapter XIX.
Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there—sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run, nights, and laid up and hid, daytimes; soon as night was most gone, we stopped navigating, and tied up—nearly always in the dead water under a tow-head; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows and hid the raft with them. Then we set out the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a sound, anywheres—perfectly still—just as if like the whole world was dead asleep. asleep, only sometimes the bull-frogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first thing to see, looking away across over the water, was a kind of a dim, dull line—that was the forest woods on t’other side—you couldn’t make anything nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness, spreading around; then the river softened up, away off, and wasn’t warn’t black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along, ever so far away—trading scows, and such things; and long, black streaks—rafts; sometimes you could hear the screak of a sweep, a sweep screaking; or jumbled sounds of up voices, it was so still, and sounds traveled come so far; now and by and by you could begin to see the ruffled a streak on the water that the current breaking past a snag makes; which you know by the look of the streak that there’s a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; next, and you would see the lightest and whitest mist curling curl up from off of the water; water, and pretty soon the east reddens up, then and the river reddens, river, and maybe you make out a little log cabin in the edge of the forest, woods, away yonder on the bank on t’other side of the river; river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze would spring springs up, and come comes fanning you from over the water, there, so cool and fresh, and so sweet to smell, on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they’ve left dead fish laying around, gars, and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you’d have you’ve got the full day, and everything shining smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just agoing going it!
A little smoke couldn’t be noticed, now, so we would take some fish off of the lines, and cook up a hot breakfast. After we had had a smoke, And afterwards we would watch the awful lonesomeness of the river, and kind of dream lazy along, and be happy, not talking much, and by and by nod lazy off to sleep. Wake up, by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat, coughing along up stream, so far off towards the other side that she didn’t seem to belong to this world at all, hardly; you couldn’t tell nothing about her only whether she was stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn’t be a sound on the water, nor a solitary moving thing, as far as you could nothing to hear nor nothing to see—just solid Sunday and lonesomeness. Next you’d see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a man galoot on it, chopping; it chopping, because they’re most always doing it on a raft; you’d see the axe flash, and come down—nary a sound, any more than if it had sunk into butter; you don’t hear nothing; you’d you see that axe go up again, and by the time it was it’s above the man’s head, then you’d then you hear the sound, sharp and clean k’chunk! —it had took all that time to travel come over the water. So we would put in the day; dozing, dreaming, and day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans to warn so the steamboats to keep off and not wouldn’t run over them. A scow or a raft went by so close to us that we heard could hear them talking and cussing and laughing—heard them just as plain as if they had been only five steps off; plain; but we couldn’t see the faintest no sign of them; it made me you feel crawly, it was so like ghosts or spirits talking and laughing carrying on that way in the air; and the voices drifted off and faded out, just the same as if they had been on the wing. air. Jim said he believed it was was spirits; but I says, says:
“No, spirits wouldn’t say, ‘Dern the derned dern fog.’ ”
Soon as it was night, out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle, we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes and dangled our legs in the water and talked about all kinds of things—we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us—the new clothes Buck’s folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn’t go much on clothes anyway. clothes, nohow.
Well, sometimes Sometimes we’d have that whole monstrous river all to ourselves, for hours. the longest time. Yonder was the dim banks and the islands, away off acrost across the water; and now and then maybe a spark—which was a candle in some a cabin window—some family was at home, there, and they could see our lantern, of course, and so it was kind of sociable-like, and friendly; and sometimes, away down the river, or away up it, we on the water you could see a spark or two—on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe we would just you could hear the faintest scraping of a fiddle or sound of a song coming over the water from one of those them crafts. Lordy, it is It’s lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky, up there, all sprinkled thick speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made, or only just happened—Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I judged it would have took too long to make so many. Jim said the moon could have a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable and natural, reasonable, so I didn’t say nothing against it, because I’ve seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it was plain enough it could be done. We used to watch the falling stars, stars that fell, too, and see them streak down the sky and trail their sparky tails behind them. down. Jim reckoned they had allowed they’d got spoiled and was flung hove out of the nest.
About once Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark,Ⓐalteration in the MS away over on t’other side, like a long string of glow-worms, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimneys, chimbleys, and they would trail off and rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then the boat she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her pow-wow die down shut off and leave the big river all to us still again; and by and by the wash of her waves would travel get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle our the raft a bit, and after that we would have the dead quiet once more. you wouldn’t hear nothing for you couldn’t tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.
A Revised Passage from Chapter 20
The camp-meeting scene as published differs considerably from the original manuscript version written in 1880 (MS1b, 579.1–600.8). Mark Twain carefully edited the episode at the typescript stage—shortening it, toning down the racial and religious satire, and reducing its similarity to Johnson J. Hooper’s 1845 sketch, “The Captain Attends a Camp-Meeting.”
[begin page 548]
[begin page continued 549] As a child, Clemens may well have attended camp meetings with his family. He attended a Methodist Sunday school until 1841 when his mother joined the Presbyterian church, which maintained a site for an annual encampment three miles outside of Hannibal. Clemens also had firsthand experience of the intense revival preaching of the period, for in about 1850, while he was a printing apprentice on the Hannibal Missouri Courier, he witnessed a Campbellite revival at which Alexander Campbell himself preached. “All converted but me. All sinners again in a week,” he commented later (SLC [1897?]; Inds , 350; Sweets, 4, 17, 51–53; AD, 29 Mar 1906, CU-MARK, in MTA , 2:279; [Bacon] , 39; L4 , 86 n. 1).
Camp meetings were at their height in Missouri during the first half of the nineteenth century. Hundreds, even thousands, gathered at the camp sites, often traveling for miles, and bringing bedding and tents. “Many anticipated a profound conversion and religious experience; some came only to jest, swear, or be amused by the emotional excesses for which the meetings were known; others came to see the condition and prospects of the matrimonial market” (Windell, 256). Early meetings were associated with some immorality and rowdyism, as well as extraordinary physical manifestations of religious fervor, such as the “holy laugh,” the “jerks,” and the “falling exercise” or “holy toppling” (Charles A. Johnson, 54–62, 93; Windell, 259–61). Slaves and free blacks attended the meetings along with white worshipers; there were many accomplished black preachers, as well as white. Although certain areas were designated for the black congregation, and the sexes were also segregated, it is clear that race and gender barriers were not strictly observed (Bruce, 73, 89; Windell, 253–55, 261, 263, 266–67; Charles A. Johnson, 46, 113–18, 242–46; McCurdy, 156–60, 167).
While Mark Twain probably drew on his own personal knowledge in writing his camp-meeting episode, he was undoubtedly also aware of the numerous literary treatments of the theme. The general influence of Johnson J. Hooper’s backwoods sketch “The Captain Attends a Camp-Meeting” [begin page 550] has long been known. Hooper’s shifty rogue, Captain Simon Suggs—like the king in Mark Twain’s scene—comes to the mourners’ bench, feigns conversion, and then gulls the crowd by collecting funds for a spurious church. The rediscovered manuscript version of Mark Twain’s camp-meeting scene reveals a more specific debt to the Suggs sketch: Mark Twain’s “fat nigger woman” who in her religious fervor would “tackle” and “smother” the white mourners, recalls Hooper’s “huge, greasy negro woman” who falls on another mourner, yelling “ ‘Gl-o-ree!’ ” (Hooper 1845, 121; Blair 1960a, 279–81; DeVoto 1932, 255; see also Doyno 1996b, 379–81). Mark Twain excised this passage before publication, probably realizing that its coarse humor was too reminiscent of Hooper’s sketch.
Camp-meeting descriptions were commonplace in the travel memoirs and fiction of the period. All provided details of the camp sites, the style and language of the sermons and exhortations, the fervent hymn singing, and the frenzy of the congregation. Among the accounts that Mark Twain may have seen are the following: Frederick Marryat’s Diary in America (1839), chapter 32; Frances Trollope’s Domestic Manners of the Americans (1832), chapters 8 and 15; Fredrika Bremer’s Homes of the New World (1853), letter xiv; and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Dred; A Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp (1856), chapter 23. (The works by Marryat and Trollope are among those he consulted while writing Life on the Mississippi.) Descriptions of village revivals and backwoods preaching can also be found in three of Edward Eggleston’s novels—The Hoosier School-Master (1871), The Circuit Rider (1874), and Roxy (1878)—as well as in Hamilton Pierson’s In the Brush (1881), a title that Clemens jotted down in his notebook in March 1882 ( N&J2 , 453; Ganzel 1962a and 1962b; Kruse 1981, 49, 166).
Revision occurred in two stages, designated here as: Manuscript Text—on lefthand pages, Mark Twain’s 1880 manuscript draft with its internal revisions; and Final Text—on righthand pages, that same revised passage as it was typed and then further revised in 1883 and 1884, with possibly some changes also made on proof. These two stages are published here, side by side, for the first time.
[begin page 551]
Manuscript Text
Mark Twain’s first draft with his revisions
We got there in about a half an hour, sweating like sin, for it was an a most awful hot day. Everything was a-booming. There was as much as two a thousand people there, from twenty forty mile around. The woods was full of teams & wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon troughs & stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles & roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade & ginger-bread to sell, & piles & piles of water-millions m watermillions water-melons & green corn & such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same kind of sheds, only they was bigger & held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn’t have no any backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on, at one end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets; & some had linsey-woolsey from frocks, some gingham ones, & a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted, & some of the good children & good-sized boys didn’t have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, & some of the young folks was courting on the sly.
The first shed we come to, o the preacher was lining-out a hymn, hymn. He lined out two lines; everybody sung it—roared it out, they did, in a most rousing way:
“Shall I be carried to the skies,On flowery beds of ease—”
“Am I a soldier of the cross,
A follower of the Lamb,”—
—then the preacher lined-out the next two:
“Whilst others fight to win the prize,And sail through bloody seas?”
“And shall I fear to own his cause,
Or blush to speak his name?- 1
—& so on. The people woke up more & more, & sung louder & louder; & towards the end, some begun to groan, & some begun to shout. The preacher begun to preach, & he warmed up, right away, & went a-weaving up first to one side of his platform & then to- to t’other, & then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms & his body a-going it all the time, & sing-songing his words out so with all his might & main, so you could a heard him a mile; & every now & then he would hold up his open Bible, & kind of pass it around this way & that, shouting, “It’s the brazen serpent in the wilderness-ah! look upon it & live!” live-ah!”2 & people would sing out, “Glo-o-ree!—A-a-men!” & so on, & next he would lay the Bible down & weave about the platform, & work back to the Bible again, pretty soon, & fetch it a whack bang with his fist & shout “Here it is! the rock of salvation-ah!” And so he went on a-raging, & the people groaning & crying, & jumping up & hugging one another, & Amens was popping off everywheres. Every little while he would tal preach right at people that he saw was stirred up:
“The sperrit’s a workin’ in you brother—don’t shake him off-ah! Now is the accepted time-ah! [A-a- men!] The devil’s holt is a weakenin’ on you, sister—shake him loose, shake him loose-ah! One more shake & the vict’ry’s won-ah! [Come down, Lord!] Hell’s a-burning, the kingdom’s a-coming-ah!—one more shake, sister, one more shake & your
chains is broke-ah! [Glory hal -lelujah!] O, come to the mourner’s bench! Come, black with sin-ah! sin! [Amen!] come, sich sick & sore! [Amen!] come, lame, & blind & halt! [Amen!] come, pore & needy, sunk in shame! [A-a- men!] come all that’s worn, & guilty & sufferin’!—come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart, heart! come, in your rags & sin & dirt, & dont dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open—O, enter into the everlasting rest!” [A-a- men! Glo-o-ry-glory! Come down, Lord!]
And so on. You couldn’t make out what the preacher said, anymore, on account of the whooping & shouting & crying that was going on. Folks got up, everywheres in the crowd, & worked their way, just by main force, to the mourner’s bench, with the tears a-pouring down their faces, & folks hugging them & crying over them all the way. And it was worse than every when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a gang. They hugged one another, & shouted, & flung themselves down on the straw, & wallowed around, just plum crazy & wild. One fat nigger wench woman about forty, was the worst. The white mour mourners couldn’t fend her off, no way—fast as one would get loose, she’d tackle the next one, & most & smother him! him. Next, down she went in the straw, along with the rest, & wallowed around, clawing dirt & shouting glory hallelujah same as they did.
Well, the first I knowed, the king got a start. He begun to warm up, & by & by he just laid over them all, for whooping & hugging & wallowing. And when everything was just at its boomingest, he went a-charging up onto the platform & flung his arms around the preacher & went to hugging him & kissing him, & crying all over him, & thanking him for saving him. The preacher felt so good about it, that he begged the king to speak to the people, & he done it. He warmed them up, too—told them he ’d been a was a pirate—been a pirate for thirty years, out in the Indian ocean, & his crew was killed off thinned out considerable, last spring in a fight, & he was home, now, to take out some fresh men, & thanks to goodness he’d been robbed last night & put ashore from a steamboat without a cent, & glory hallelujah he was glad of it, it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he’d got converted religion to-day, & was a changed man & happy for the first time in his
life; &, poor as he was, he meant to start right off & work his way back to the Indian ocean & put in the rest of his life converting pirates & turning them into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all the pirate crews in that ocean; & though it would take him a long time to get there, without money, he would get there, anyway, & every time he converted a pirate, he would say to him, “Don’t you thank me, don’t you give me no credit, it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp meeting, & that dear preacher that spoke the words that set my soul afire & saved it from that other fire that burns foreverlasting—glory hallelujah!”
And then he busted into tears, & so did everybody; & he hugged the preacher & cried on him again, & everybody hugged one another & sung out “A-a-men! & all that sort of thing. Then somebody sings out “Take up a collection, take up a collection for the pore soul!” Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, “Let him pass the hat around!” Then everybody said it, the preacher, too.
So the king went all through that crowd with his hat, a-crying, & a-swabbing his eyes, & blessing the people & praising them & thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there with nobody to give them a lift & show them the way to the light; & every little while the pretty prettiest kind of girls, with the tears a-running down their cheeks would up & ask him would he let them kiss him, for to remember him by; & he always let them; & sometimes he some of them he hugged & kissed as many as five or six times—& he was invited to stay a week; & everybody wanted him to live in their houses. houses, & & said they’d think it an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp meeting he couldn’t do no good, & besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian ocean right off & go to saving pirates.
When we got back to the raft & he come to count up, he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars & seventy-five cents. And he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he had found under a wagon when we was coming home starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he’d every put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn’t no use talking, heathens didn’t amount to a dern, alongside of pirates, to work a camp meeting with.
Final Text
Mark Twain’s final revisions on typescript or proof
We got there in about a half an hour, sweating like sin, fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. Everything was a-booming. There was as much as a thousand people there, from twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and ginger-bread to sell, and piles and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same kind kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. They didn’t have any no backs. The preachers had high platforms to stand on, at one end of the sheds. The women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children and good-sized boys didn’t have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly.
The first shed we come to, the preacher was lining-out a hymn. He lined out two lines; lines, everybody sung it—roared it out, they did, in a most rousing way:
“Am I a soldier of the cross,A follower of the Lamb,”—
—then the preacher lined-out the next two:
“And shall I fear to own his cause,Or blush to speak his name?”
it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing—and so on. The people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end, some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. The Then the preacher begun to preach, and he warmed up, right away, preach; and begun in earnest, too; and went a-weaving weaving first to one side of his the platform and then to t’other, the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body a-going it going all the time, and sing-songing shouting his words out with all his might and main, so you could a heard him a mile; might; and every now and then he would hold up his open Bible, Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, “It’s the brazen serpent in the wilderness-ah! look wilderness! look upon it and live-ah!” live!” and people would sing shout out, Glo-o-ree!—A-a-men!” “Glory!—A-a-men!” and so on, and next he would lay the Bible down and weave about the platform, and work back to the Bible again, pretty soon, and fetch it a bang with his fist and shout “Here it is! the rock of salvation-ah!” And so he went on a-raging, on, and the people groaning and crying, and jumping up and hugging one another, and Amens was popping off everywheres. Every little while he would preach right at people that he saw was stirred up: crying and saying amen:
“The sperrit’s a workin’ in you brother—don’t shake him off-ah! Now is the accepted time-ah! [A-a- men!] The devil’s holt is a weakenin’ on you, sister—shake him loose, shake him loose-ah! One more shake and the vict’ry’s won-ah! [Come down, Lord!] Hell’s a-burning, the kingdom’s a-coming-ah!—one more shake, sister, one more shake and your
chains is broke-ah! [Glory hal -lelujah!] “O, come to the mourner’s mourners’ bench! Come, black with sin! [Amen!] come, sick and sore! [Amen!] come, lame, and blind and halt! lame and halt, and blind! [Amen!] come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! [A-a- men!] come all that’s worn, and guilty and sufferin’! and soiled, and suffering!—come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open—O, enter into the everlasting rest!” [A-a- men! Glo-o-ry-glory! Come down, Lord!] in and be at rest!” [A-a- men! Glory, glory hallelujah!]
And so on. You couldn’t make out what the preacher said, anymore, any more, on account of the whooping and shouting and crying that was going on. crying. Folks got up, everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way, just by main force, strength, to the mourner’s mourners’ bench, with the tears a-pouring running down their faces, and folks hugging them and crying over them all the way. And it was worse than ever faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a gang. They hugged one another, crowd, they sung, and shouted, and flung themselves down on the straw, and wallowed around, just plum crazy and wild. One fat nigger woman about forty, was the worst. The white mourners couldn’t fend her off, no way—fast as one would get loose, she’d tackle the next one, and smother him. Next, down she went in the straw, along with the rest, and wallowed around, clawing dirt and shouting glory hallelujah same as they did.
Well, the first I knowed, the king got a start. He begun to warm up, and by and by he laid over them all, for whooping and hugging and wallowing. And when everything was just at its boomingest, agoing; and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up onto the platform and flung his arms around the preacher and went to hugging him and kissing him, and crying all over him, and thanking him for saving him. The preacher felt so good about it, that he begged the king him to speak to the people, and he done it. He warmed them up, too— told them he was a pirate—been a pirate for thirty years, out in the Indian ocean, and his crew was thinned out considerable, last spring in a fight, and he was home, now, to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he’d been robbed last night and put ashore from off of a steamboat without a cent, and glory hallelujah he was glad of it, it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he’d got religion today, and he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his
life; and, poor as he was, he meant was going to start right off and work his way back to the Indian ocean and put in the rest of his life converting pirates and turning them trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all the pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there, without money, he would get get there, anyway, and every time he converted convinced a pirate, he would say to him, “Don’t you thank me, me, don’t you give me me no credit, it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville camp meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race—and that dear preacher that spoke the words that set my soul afire and saved it from that other fire that burns foreverlasting—glory hallelujah!” there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!”
And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody; and he hugged the preacher and cried on him again, and everybody hugged one another and sung out A-a-men! and all that sort of thing. everybody. Then somebody sings out “Take up a collection, take up a collection for the pore soul!” him, take up a collection!” Well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, “Let him pass the hat around!” Then everybody said it, the preacher, too.
So the king went all through that the crowd with his hat, a-crying, and a-swabbing swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there with nobody to give them a lift and show them the way to the light; there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears a-running running down their cheeks cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him, for to remember him by; and he always let them; done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times—and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they’d think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp meeting he couldn’t do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the Indian ocean right off and go to saving work on the pirates.
When we got back to the raft and he come to count up, he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he had found under a wagon when we was starting home through the woods. The king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he’d ever put in in the missionarying line. He said it warn’t no use talking, heathens didn’t don’t amount to a dern, shucks, alongside of pirates, to work a camp meeting with.