Mark Twain, A Biography 1875-1886 | Page 5

States," was a common address; "Mark Twain, The World," was
also used; "Mark Twain, Somewhere," mailed in a foreign country,
reached him promptly, and "Mark Twain, Anywhere," found its way to
Hartford in due season. Then there was a letter (though this was later;
he was abroad at the time), mailed by Brander Matthews and Francis
Wilson, addressed, "Mark Twain, God Knows Where." It found him

after traveling half around the world on its errand, and in his answer he
said, "He did." Then some one sent a letter addressed, "The Devil
Knows Where." Which also reached him, and he answered, "He did,
too."
Surely this was the farthest horizon of fame.
Countless Mark Twain anecdotes are told of this period, of every
period, and will be told and personally vouched for so long as the last
soul of his generation remains alive. For seventy years longer, perhaps,
there will be those who will relate "personal recollections" of Mark
Twain. Many of them will be interesting; some of them will be true;
most of them will become history at last. It is too soon to make history
of much of this drift now. It is only safe to admit a few authenticated
examples.
It happens that one of the oftenest-told anecdotes has been the least
elaborated. It is the one about his call on Mrs. Stowe. Twichell's journal
entry, set down at the time, verifies it:
Mrs. Stowe was leaving for Florida one morning, and Clemens ran over
early to say good-by. On his return Mrs. Clemens regarded him
disapprovingly:
"Why, Youth," she said, "you haven't on any collar and tie."
He said nothing, but went up to his room, did up these items in a neat
package, and sent it over by a servant, with a line:
"Herewith receive a call from the rest of me."
Mrs. Stowe returned a witty note, in which she said that he had
discovered a new principle, the principle of making calls by instalments,
and asked whether, in extreme cases, a man might not send his hat, coat,
and boots and be otherwise excused.
Col. Henry Watterson tells the story of an after-theater supper at the
Brevoort House, where Murat Halstead, Mark Twain, and himself were
present. A reporter sent in a card for Colonel Watterson, who was about
to deny himself when Clemens said:
"Give it to me; I'll fix it." And left the table. He came back in a moment
and beckoned to Watterson.
"He is young and as innocent as a lamb," he said. "I represented myself
as your secretary. I said that you were not here, but if Mr. Halstead
would do as well I would fetch him out. I'll introduce you as Halstead,
and we'll have some fun."

Now, while Watterson and Halstead were always good friends, they
were political enemies. It was a political season and the reporter wanted
that kind of an interview. Watterson gave it to him, repudiating every
principle that Halstead stood for, reversing him in every expressed
opinion. Halstead was for hard money and given to flying the "bloody
shirt" of sectional prejudice; Watterson lowered the bloody shirt and
declared for greenbacks in Halstead's name. Then he and Clemens
returned to the table and told frankly what they had done. Of course,
nobody believed it. The report passed the World night-editor, and
appeared, next morning. Halstead woke up, then, and wrote a note to
the World, denying the interview throughout. The World printed his
note with the added line:
"When Mr. Halstead saw our reporter he had dined."
It required John Hay (then on the Tribune) to place the joke where it
belonged.
There is a Lotos Club anecdote of Mark Twain that carries the internal
evidence of truth. Saturday evening at the Lotos always brought a
gathering of the "wits," and on certain evenings--"Hens and chickens"
nights--each man had to tell a story, make a speech, or sing a song. On
one evening a young man, an invited guest, was called upon and recited
a very long poem.
One by one those who sat within easy reach of the various exits melted
away, until no one remained but Mark Twain. Perhaps he saw the
earnestness of the young man, and sympathized with it. He may have
remembered a time when he would have been grateful for one such
attentive auditor. At all events, he sat perfectly still, never taking his
eyes from the reader, never showing the least inclination toward
discomfort or impatience, but listening, as with rapt attention, to the
very last line. Douglas Taylor, one of the faithful Saturday-night
members, said to him later:
"Mark, how did you manage to sit through that dreary, interminable
poem?"
"Well," he said, "that young man thought he had a divine message to
deliver, and I