McClure's Magazine/Volume 10/Number 3/Samuel L. Clemens, "Mark Twain." a Character Sketch

SAMUEL L. CLEMENS, "MARK TWAIN."

A CHARACTER SKETCH BY ROBERT BARR.

THE world loves a label. It likes to classify its men and things, docket them, and arrange them nicely on its shelves, each in the proper place. This habit probably arises from the fact that, ever since the indiscretion of Adam, mankind has been compelled to make a living, and has found through long practice that method in business leads to success; therefore man has become a labeling animal, so inured to the vice that he carries it into provinces where it does not legitimately belong. Sometimes there drifts across the sea of life a man whom the world cannot fit into any of its prearranged pigeonholes, and him it either ignores or turns upon and rends, perhaps crucifying him. The person who interferes with these labels is never popular, and is usually howled down when he tries to show that William Tell never existed, or that William Shakespeare's works were written by Bacon, or that Nero was a just and humane monarch, or that Solomon couldn't have been so wise as reported, otherwise he would not have been so frequently married. Therefore I expect little sympathy from the intelligent reader when I detach from Mark Twain the card with the word "humorist" written upon it in large characters, and venture to consider the man uninfluenced by the ready-made verdict of the label.

I do not know whether this magazine has reproduced the photograph of Mark Twain which I have before me as I write: the one taken by Alfred Ellis of London, which is, I believe, the latest; but if not, another will do as well, and I invite the reader's critical attention to it.^[1] Any portrait of Mark Twain shows a strong face, worthy of serious study. The broad, intellectual brow, the commanding, penetrating eye, the firm, well-molded chin, give the world assurance of a man. Recently I had an opportunity of getting an opinion on this photograph; an opinion unbiassed by the label. I was traveling through France, and on the train made the acquaintance of a silk manufacturer of Lyons, who was as well versed in men and their affairs as he was ignorant of books. Nevertheless, I was amazed to learn that he had never heard of Mark Twain, and, as I had merely mentioned the name, giving him no indication of what it signified, I took the photograph from my pocket, and handed it to the Frenchman.

"That is a good representation of him," I said," and as you have seen most of the great personages of Europe, tell me what this man is."

He gazed intently at the picture for a few moments; then spoke: " I should say he was a statesman."

"Supposing you wrong in that, what would be your next guess?"

"If he is not a maker of history, he is perhaps a writer of it; a great historian, probably. Of course, it is impossible for me to guess accurately except by accident, but I use the adjective because I am convinced that this man is great in his line, whatever it is. If he makes silk, he makes the best silk."

"You couldn't improve on that if you tried a year. You have summed him up in your last sentence."

I am convinced that in Samuel L. Clemens America has lost one of its greatest statesmen; one of its most notable Presidents. If he had been born a little earlier, and if the storm-center of politics had been whirling a little further to the west forty years ago, it is quite conceivable that to-day we should be reverencing President Samuel Clemens as the man who, with firm hand on the tiller, steered his country successfully through the turbulent rapids that lay ahead of it, and that we might have known Abraham Lincoln only as a teller of funny stories. In this lies the glory of America, that in every State, perhaps in every county, we have an Abraham Lincoln, or a U. S. Grant, ready to act their parts, silently, honestly, and modestly, when grim necessity brushes aside the blatant incompetents whom, with a careless, optimistic confidence, we ordinarily put into high places. The world has now, without a single dissenting voice, elevated Lincoln to the highest pedestal a statesman can attain; but the world has a short memory, and it forgets that at the first it strove with equal unanimity, East and West, on the continent of America no less than on the continent of Europe, to place the label "clown" on his back. I saw the other day a book of cartoons on the great President, taken from American and European sources, which strike the modern eye as little short of blasphemous. However, the paste never got time to dry, and the label did not stick.

Mr. Clemens was hardly so fortunate. In early life he conjured up the cap and bells, and the bells jingled a merry, golden tune. And now when he attempts to do a serious piece of work, the bells ring as they used to do in that somber play which Henry Irving has placed so effectively before us. Yet Fate made some effort to save Mark Twain from this canorous shadowing. The publishers had "The Innocents Abroad" all set up, printed, and bound for nearly two years, but were afraid to issue it, thinking it might not be popular, so different was it from anything they had ever seen before. It came forth at last practically under compulsion, for the indignant author gave them, in a telegraph message, the choice of publishing the book or appearing before the law courts. They took the former alternative, and the instant success of the volume stamped Mark Twain as the humorist of America, if not of the world. Thus it comes about that all of the multitudinous articles which have appeared since then upon the writer of this book have treated of him entirely as the funny man, and have ignored the fact that he has eminent qualities which are no less worthy of consideration.

I think I may claim with truth that I know Mr. Clemens somewhat intimately, and I have no hesitation in saying that, although I have as keen an appreciation of humor as the next man, humor is merely a small part of his mental equipment; perhaps the smallest part. You have but to look at the man to realize this. His face is the face of a Bismarck. I have always regarded him as the typical American, if there is such a person. If ever the eyes and the beak of the American eagle were placed into and on a man's face, Samuel L. Clemens is that man. In the first published description of him, written more than thirty years ago, Dr. Hingston says, "His eyes are light and twinkling." In the most recent article, Mr. Stead says: "His eyes are gray and kindly looking."

They are kindly-looking, for the man himself is kindly, and naturally his eyes give some index of this, but their eagle-like, searching, penetrating quality seems to me their striking peculiarity. They are eyes that look into the future; that can read a man through and through. I should hate to do anything particularly mean and then have to meet the eyes of Mark Twain. I know I should be found out.

It is an achievement for a man once labeled to meet success outside of what the public consider to be his line. This Mark Twain has done. "The Prince and the Pauper" is certainly one of the very best historical novels that ever was written, and if it had not appeared, some popular books which might be mentioned would not now be in existence. "Joan of Arc" has been hailed by several of the most distinguished critics of Europe as a distinct gain to the serious literature of this country. In "A Yankee at the Court of King Arthur" the author ran counter, not only to his own label, but to a labeled section of history. The age of Arthur has been labeled "sentimental," and the iconoclast who stirred it up with the inflexible crowbar of fact and showed under what hard and revolting conditions the ordinary man then existed, naturally brought upon himself the censure of the Slaves of the Label. But these are three books which, aside from their intrinsic interest, cause a man to think; and I hope that some day Mr. Clemens will turn his attention to American history and give us a volume or two which will be illuminating.

There is a popular idea that Mark Twain is an indolent man, but as a matter of fact, I never knew one who was so indomitably industrious. As he has said to me on more than one occasion, no man is indolent on a subject that absorbingly concerns him, and in his writing Mark Twain is indefatigable, destroying more manuscript that does not entirely satisfy him than probably any other writer. His endeavor is to get his sentences as perfect as possible when first written, and not to depend on after correction, either in manuscript or proof. In the construction of the sentence, in the careful selection of the exact word, he has the genius that consists in taking infinite pains. In theory he labors each day from eleven to four or half-past, and is content if he achieves 1,800 words; but in practice he is apt to work on and on unless somebody drags him away from his task, so completely does he lose himself in what he is doing. On several occasions, when living near him on the continent of Europe, I have acted as his quitting-bell, and called in on him when it was time for him to cease working, so that we might take our pre-arranged walk together; but whether I interrupted him at four, or at five, or at six, or at seven, he generally said, "Is time up already? Just let me finish this sentence, and I'll be with you." Then, when he had forgotten me, I had usually to upset a chair or fall over a sofa to recall myself to his attention. If left entirely alone, he would break the record as far as a day's work is concerned. He cannot dictate, nor does he use a typewriter; a fountain-pen is his utmost concession to modernity. His handwriting is as legible as print, and he invariably uses note paper, which he tears off, sheet after sheet, after about 150 words have been written to the page.

Mr. Clemens is a most kindly man, and I have been amazed at the amount of time he wastes in writing letters of counsel or encouragement to utter strangers who have the brazen cheek to make this or that demand upon his energies; but as I was once one of those strangers myself, I cannot censure this practice with the emphasis it undoubtedly deserves—I am handicapped by my own guilt. As an instance of this, or perhaps I should say, as six instances, I now give some account of how he has obtained places for young men who desired to become journalists and who wrote to him invoking his aid in the furtherance of that ambition.

MARK TWAIN'S "SYSTEM" FOR FINDING EMPLOYMENT.

The strong common sense of Mr. Clemens must have struck every one who has been brought into contact with him, and I think the facts I here set down are proof of this faculty. It seems to me that his advice to would-be reporters is so good that it is a pity it should be given to individuals rather than to the general public, for it applies not to journalism alone, but to every department of effort. At the time the incidents were related to me, I put them down in my note-book, and I have endeavored to reproduce them as nearly as may be in Mr. Clemens's own words. Happily there is no time before this article appears to submit a proof to him, and so I cannot guarantee absolute accuracy; but on the other hand, I run no risk of having it vetoed and thus lost to the world; and in apologizing to him, I beg to add the time-honored formula of journalism, that our columns are open to him should he desire to make any correction.

Mr. Clemens invented a "system" once; perhaps one might be allowed to call it a philosophy.

It was thirty-five years ago. He and Jim were cabin-mates in a new silver-mining camp away off in a corner of Nevada. They had spent weeks in vain prospecting; their money was about out; they found themselves compelled to throw their tools aside for a while and hunt up a salaried situation of one kind or another. When I say " they," I mean Jim; for he was of powerful build and stood a chance, whereas his partner was feeble and stood none. Jim went over into the valley where the quartz mills were, and tried to get a situation, but there was not a vacancy of any kind. Things looked dark for them. They sat around many hours, gloomily brooding and thinking. Then necessity, the mother of invention, came suddenly and unexpectedly to the help of the weaker comrade. A scheme was born to Clemens, a scheme founded upon a common foible of our human nature. He believed it would work, but thought he would not expose it to criticism and almost certain derision until he had privately tested it. Clemens said to Jim:

"Which mill would you rather have a situation in?"

"Oh, the Morning Star, of course; but they are full; there wasn't the least show there; I knew it before I went."

"Very well, I will go and see if they will give me a place. When I get it I will turn it over to you."

It was a sad time, but Jim almost smiled at the idea. He said:

"When you get it. It was well to put that in. If they've no place for me, what do you suppose they want with an arrested development like you ? "

Jim was surprised when Clemens started. He had not supposed that his partner was in earnest.

Clemens arrived, and asked the foreman for work. It would have been natural for the foreman to laugh, but he was not the laughing sort. He said promptly:

"All full!" and was turning away, but the young man said:

"I know that, but if you will let me tell you"—and Clemens went on and told him the project. He listened, a little impatiently at first, then tolerantly, and finally sympathetically—yes, with even a distinct friendliness in his eye. When the youth had finished, the foreman said:

"All right, my boy. It is a queer notion, and rather unusual, I must say. Still, it's your own proposition, and if you are satisfied with it, shed your coat and be gin."

At the end of a week Clemens was back at the cabin, pretty well worn out, Jim said:

"Why, how you look! What have you been doing?"

"Screening sand, sorting ore, feeding batteries, cleaning up amalgam, charging the pans, firing the retorts—oh, everything."

"Is that so? Did they give you a situation?"

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes."

"What mill?"

"The Morning Star."

"What a lie."

"It isn't. It's true. And I've arranged for you to take my place Monday. Steady situation as long as you like. And you'll get wages, too. I didn't."

The closing remark discloses the magic secret of Clemens's "system," and he has worked the scheme many times since. Compressed into a sentence, the gospel of the system is this: Almost any man will give you a situation if you are willing to work for nothing; the salary will follow presently; you have only to wait a little, and be patient.

This plan floated Clemens into journalism; then into book-making, and other diversions followed. After a while, candidates for places on the daily press and for admission to the magazines began to apply to him for help. This was in 1870. They wanted him to use his "influence." It was a pleasant phrase, "influence"—and debauched his honesty. He could not bring himself to come out and acknowledge that he hadn't any, so he did what all the new hands do: wrote notes of introduction and recommendation to editors, although he knew that the focus of an editor's literary judgment could not be altered by such futilities. His notes accomplished nothing, so he reformed and stopped writing them.

HOW THE "SYSTEM" HAS WORKED.

But the applications did not cease. Then the "system" tested eight years before, in the mines, suggested itself, and he thought he would try it on these people. His first patient was a young stranger out West. He was blazingly anxious to become a journalist, and believed he had the proper stuff in him for the vocation; but he said he had no friends and no influence, and all his efforts to get work on newspapers had failed. He asked only the most moderate wages, yet he was always promptly snubbed, and could get no editor to listen to him. Clemens thought out a sermon for that young fellow, and in substance it was to this effect:—

Your project is unfair. The physician, the clergyman, the lawyer, the teacher, the architect, the sculptor, the painter, the engineer, all spend years and money in fitting themselves for their several professions, and none of them expects to be paid a penny for his services until his long apprenticeship is finished and his competency established. It is the same with the humbler trades. If you should go, equipped with your splendid ignorance, to the carpenter or the tinner or the shoemaker, and ask for a situation and wages, you would frighten those people; they would take you for a lunatic. And you would take me for a lunatic, if I should suggest that you go to them with such a proposition. Then why should you have the effrontery to ask an editor for employment and wages when you have served no apprenticeship to the trade of writing ? And yet you are hardly to blame, for you have the rest of the world with you. It is a common superstition that a pen is a thing which——

However, never mind the rest; you get the idea. It was probably a good enough sermon, but Mr. Clemens has the impression that he did not send it. He did send a note, however, and it was to this effect:

"If you will obey my instructions strictly, I will get you a situation on a daily newspaper. You may select the paper yourself; also the city and State."

This note made the receiver glad. It made his heart bound. You could see it in his answer. It was the first time he had run across a Simon-pure benefactor of the old school. He promised, on honor, and gratefully, that whatever the instructions might be, he would not swerve from them a hair's breadth. And he named the journal of his choice. He chose high, too, but that was a good sign. Mr. Clemens framed the instructions and sent them, although he had an idea that they might disappoint the applicant a little, but nothing was said about that.

Formula: (1) By a beneficent law of our human nature, every man is ready and willing to employ any young fellow who is honestly anxious to work—for nothing.

(2) A man once wonted to an employee and satisfied with him, is loath to part with him and give himself the trouble of breaking in a new man.

Let us practice upon these foibles.

Instructions: (1) You are to apply for work at the office of your choice.

(2) You are to go without recommendations. You are not to mention my name, nor any one's but your own.

(3) You are to say that you want no pay. That all you want is work; any kind of work—you make no stipulation; you are ready to sweep out, point the pencils, replenish the inkstands, hold copy, tidy up, keep the place in order, run errands—anything and everything; you are not particular. You are so tired of being idle that life is a burden to you; all you want is work and plenty of it. You do not want a pennyworth of remuneration. N. B.—You will get the place, whether the man be a generous one or a selfish one.

(4) You must not sit around and wait for the staff to find work for you to do. You must keep watch and find it for yourself. When you can't find it, invent it. You will be popular there pretty soon, and the boys will do you a good turn whenever they can. When you are on the street and see a thing that is worth reporting, go to the office and tell about it. By and by you will be allowed to put such things on paper yourself. In the morning you will notice that they have been edited, and a good many of your words left out—the very strongest and best ones, too. That will teach you to modify yourself. In due course you will drift by natural and sure degrees into daily and regular reporting, and will find yourself on the city editor's staff, without any one's quite knowing how or when you got there.

(5) By this time you have become necessary; possibly even indispensable. Still you are never to mention wages. That is a matter which will take care of itself; you must wait. By and by there will be a vacancy on a neighboring paper. You will know all the reporters in town by this time, and one or another of them will speak of you and you will be offered the place, at current wages. You will report this good fortune to your city editor, and he will offer you the same wages, and you will stay where you are.

(6) Subsequently, whenever higher pay is offered you on another paper, you are not to take the place if your original employer is willing to keep you at a like price.

These instructions were probably not quite what the young fellow was expecting, but he kept his word, and obeyed them to the letter. He applied for the situation, and got it without trouble. He kept his adviser acquainted with the steps of his progress. He began in the general utility line, and moved along up. Within a month he was on the city editor's staff. Within another month he was offered a place on another paper—with wages. His own employers "called the hand," and he remained where he was. Within the next four years, his salary was twice raised by the same process. Then he was given the berth of chief editor on a great daily down South, and there he still was when Mr. Clemens last heard of him.

His next patient was another stranger who wanted to try journalism and could not get an opening. He was very much gratified when he was told to choose his paper and he would be given a situation on it. He was less gratified when he learned the terms. Still he carried them out, got the place he wanted, and has been a reporter ever since.

The third patient followed the rules, and at the end of a month was made a sort of assistant editor of the paper, and he was also put under wages without his asking it: not high wages, for it was not a rich or prominent paper, but as good as he was worth. Six months later he was offered the chief editorship of a new daily in another town—a paper to be conducted by a chairman and directors—moneyed, arrogant, small-fry politicians. Mr. Clemens told him he was too meek a creature for the place: that he would be bundled out of it without apology in three months, and tried to persuade him to stay where he was and where his employment would be permanent; but the glory of a chief editorship was too dazzling, the salary was extravagant, and he went to his doom. He lasted less than three months, and was then hustled out with contumely. That was twenty years ago. His spirit was wounded to the death probably, for he has never applied for a place since, and has never had one of any kind.

The fourth candidate was a stranger. He obeyed the rules, got the place he named, became a good reporter and very popular, was presently put under a good salary voluntarily, and remained at his post a year. Then he disappeared, greatly regretted. His creditors will lynch him when they get him. Or maybe they will elect him mayor; there are enough of them to make it unanimous.

The fifth man followed the rules, and went up and up till he became chief editor, then down and down until he became a lawyer.

No. 6 was a fine success. He chose his paper, and followed the rules strictly. In fifteen years he has climbed from a general utility youth to the top, and is now chief leader writer on one of the most widely known and successful daily journals in the world. He has never served any but the one employer. The same man pays his large salary to-day who took him, an unknown youth at nothing-and-find-himself, fifteen years ago.

These are genuine cases, and Mr. Clemens stated them truthfully. There are others, but these are enough to show that the "system" is a practical one and is soundly based.

And not uncomplimentarily based, for I think it is fair to assume that its real strength does not lie so much in man's selfish disposition to get something for nothing, as in his inability to rebuff with an ungenerous " no" a young fellow who i.s asking a wholly harmless and unexacting favor of him.

Since the system has succeeded so well in finding openings in journalism, it may perhaps be trusted to open a way into nearly any calling in the list of industries. So it is offered with confidence to young men and women who want situations and are without friends and influence.

AN INCIDENT OF '49.

By James H. Holmes.

N the early spring of 1849 there collected in camps on the Kansas River, near the Missouri line, men from many Western States, intending to take the overland route to California. I joined a small party of these, made up for the the mutual protection while crossing the Plains. One member of our company was a young man who had left his Illinois home with a new, strong wagon, well loaded with everything deemed necessary to last him a year in the mines, and drawn by a pair of good horses. Of this team one had been a colt born and reared on his father's farm, and all its life the pet of the family.

For many weeks our journey was a delightful pleasure trip. The vast uninhabited country was strange, beautiful, and majestic. The pure air and exercise were exhilarating. Good appetites made our camp fare delicious. In high spirits we made our westward marches day by day. But when we had advanced several hundred miles, the horses of the Illinoisan began to show marks of the journey.

1. The portrait of Mark Twain mentioned by Mr. Barr was reproduced as the frontispiece of the November number of McClure's.—Editor.