The Gilded Age | Page 4

author's; it
was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle
hour. It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is
submitted without the usual apologies.
It will be seen that it deals with an entirely ideal state of society; and
the chief embarrassment of the writers in this realm of the imagination
has been the want of illustrative examples. In a State where there is no
fever of speculation, no inflamed desire for sudden wealth, where the
poor are all simple-minded and contented, and the rich are all honest
and generous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity and
politics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic, there are
necessarily no materials for such a history as we have constructed out
of an ideal commonwealth.
No apology is needed for following the learned custom of placing
attractive scraps of literature at the heads of our chapters. It has been
truly observed by Wagner that such headings, with their vague
suggestions of the matter which is to follow them, pleasantly inflame
the reader's interest without wholly satisfying his curiosity, and we will
hope that it may be found to be so in the present case.
Our quotations are set in a vast number of tongues; this is done for the
reason that very few foreign nations among whom the book will
circulate can read in any language but their own; whereas we do not
write for a particular class or sect or nation, but to take in the whole
world.

We do not object to criticism; and we do not expect that the critic will
read the book before writing a notice of it: We do not even expect the
reviewer of the book will say that he has not read it. No, we have no
anticipations of anything unusual in this age of criticism. But if the
Jupiter, Who passes his opinion on the novel, ever happens to peruse it
in some weary moment of his subsequent life, we hope that he will not
be the victim of a remorse bitter but too late.
One word more. This is--what it pretends to be a joint production, in
the conception of the story, the exposition of the characters, and in its
literal composition. There is scarcely a chapter that does not bear the
marks of the two writers of the book. S. L. C. C. D. W.

[Etext Editor's Note: The following chapters were written by Mark
Twain: 1-11, 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 32-34, 36, 37, 42, 43, 45, 51-53, 57,
59-62; and portions of 35, 49, and 56. See Twain's letter to Dr. John
Brown Feb. 28, 1874 D.W.]
CHAPTER I.
June 18--. Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyramid of large blocks, called
the "stile," in front of his house, contemplating the morning.
The locality was Obedstown, East Tennessee. You would not know that
Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, for there was nothing about
the landscape to indicate it--but it did: a mountain that stretched abroad
over whole counties, and rose very gradually. The district was called
the "Knobs of East Tennessee," and had a reputation like Nazareth, as
far as turning out any good thing was concerned.
The Squire's house was a double log cabin, in a state of decay; two or
three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the threshold, and lifted their heads
sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins or the children stepped in and out over
their bodies. Rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench
stood near the door with a tin wash basin on it and a pail of water and a
gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the pail, but the exertion was

overtaxing her energies, and she had stopped to rest. There was an ash-
hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, for soft-soap-boiling, near it.
This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of Obedstown; the other
fourteen houses were scattered about among the tall pine trees and
among the corn- fields in such a way that a man might stand in the
midst of the city and not know but that he was in the country if he only
depended on his eyes for information.
"Squire" Hawkins got his title from being postmaster of
Obedstown--not that the title properly belonged to the office, but
because in those regions the chief citizens always must have titles of
some sort, and so the usual courtesy had been extended to Hawkins.
The mail was monthly, and sometimes amounted to as much as three or
four letters at a single delivery. Even a rush like this did not fill up the
postmaster's whole month, though, and therefore he "kept store" in the
intervals.
The Squire was contemplating the morning. It