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_ EARLY LETTERS, 1853. NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA
We have no record of Mark Twain's earliest letters. Very likely
they were soiled pencil notes, written to some school sweetheart--
to "Becky Thatcher," perhaps--and tossed across at lucky moments,
or otherwise, with happy or disastrous results. One of those
smudgy, much-folded school notes of the Tom Sawyer period would be
priceless to-day, and somewhere among forgotten keepsakes it may
exist, but we shall not be likely to find it. No letter of his
boyhood, no scrap of his earlier writing, has come to light except
his penciled name, SAM CLEMENS, laboriously inscribed on the inside
of a small worn purse that once held his meager, almost non-existent
wealth. He became a printer's apprentice at twelve, but as he
received no salary, the need of a purse could not have been urgent.
He must have carried it pretty steadily, however, from its
appearance--as a kind of symbol of hope, maybe--a token of that
Sellers-optimism which dominated his early life, and was never
entirely subdued.
No other writing of any kind has been preserved from Sam Clemens's
boyhood, none from that period of his youth when he had served his
apprenticeship and was a capable printer on his brother's paper, a
contributor to it when occasion served. Letters and manuscripts of
those days have vanished--even his contributions in printed form are
unobtainable. It is not believed that a single number of Orion
Clemens's paper, the Hannibal Journal, exists to-day.
It was not until he was seventeen years old that Sam Clemens wrote a
letter any portion of which has survived. He was no longer in
Hannibal. Orion's unprosperous enterprise did not satisfy him.
His wish to earn money and to see the world had carried him first to
St. Louis, where his sister Pamela was living, then to New York
City, where a World's Fair in a Crystal Palace was in progress.
The letter tells of a visit to this great exhibition. It is not
complete, and the fragment bears no date, but it was written during
the summer of 1853.
Fragment of a letter from Sam L. Clemens to his sister
Pamela Moffett, in St. Louis, summer of 1853:
. . . From the gallery (second floor) you have a glorious sight--the
flags of the different countries represented, the lofty dome, glittering
jewelry, gaudy tapestry, &c., with the busy crowd passing to and fro--tis
a perfect fairy palace--beautiful beyond description.
The Machinery department is on the main floor, but I cannot enumerate any
of it on account of the lateness of the hour (past 8 o'clock.) It would
take more than a week to examine everything on exhibition; and as I was
only in a little over two hours tonight, I only glanced at about one-
third of the articles; and having a poor memory; I have enumerated
scarcely any of even the principal objects. The visitors to the Palace
average 6,000 daily--double the population of Hannibal. The price of
admission being 50 cents, they take in about $3,000.
The Latting Observatory (height about 280 feet) is near the Palace--from
it you can obtain a grand view of the city and the country round. The
Croton Aqueduct, to supply the city with water, is the greatest wonder
yet. Immense sewers are laid across the bed of the Hudson River, and
pass through the country to Westchester county, where a whole river is
turned from its course, and brought to New York. From the reservoir in
the city to the Westchester county reservoir, the distance is thirty-
eight miles! and if necessary, they could supply every family in New York
with one hundred barrels of water per day!
I am very sorry to learn that Henry has been sick. He ought to go to the
country and take exercise; for he is not half so healthy as Ma thinks he
is. If he had my walking to do, he would be another boy entirely. Four
times every day I walk a little over one mile; and working hard all day,
and walking four miles, is exercise--I am used to it, now, though, and it
is no trouble. Where is it Orion's going to? Tell Ma my promises are
faithfully kept, and if I have my health I will take her to Ky. in the
spring--I shall save money for this. Tell Jim and all the rest of them
to write, and give me all the news. I am sorry to hear such bad news
from Will and Captain Bowen. I shall write to Will soon. The Chatham-
square Post Office and the Broadway office too, are out of my way, and I
always go to the General Post Office; so you must write the direction of
my letters plain, "New York City, N. Y.," without giving the street or
anything of the kind, or they may go to some of the other offices. (It
has just struck 2 A.M. and I always get up at 6, and am at work at 7.)
You ask me where I spend my evenings. Where would you suppose, with a
free printers' library containing more than 4,000 volumes within a
quarter of a mile of me, and nobody at home to talk to? I shall write to
Ella soon. Write soon
Truly your Brother
SAM.
P. S. I have written this by a light so dim that you nor Ma could not
read by it.
He was lodging in a mechanics' cheap boarding-house in Duane Street,
and we may imagine the bareness of his room, the feeble poverty of
his lamp.
"Tell Ma my promises are faithfully kept." It was the day when he
had left Hannibal. His mother, Jane Clemens, a resolute, wiry woman
of forty-nine, had put together his few belongings. Then, holding
up a little Testament:
"I want you to take hold of the end of this, Sam," she said, "and
make me a promise. I want you to repeat after me these words:
'I do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card, or drink a drop
of liquor while I am gone.'"
It was this oath, repeated after her, that he was keeping
faithfully. The Will Bowen mentioned is a former playmate, one of
Tom Sawyer's outlaw band. He had gone on the river to learn
piloting with an elder brother, the "Captain." What the bad news
was is no longer remembered, but it could not have been very
serious, for the Bowen boys remained on the river for many years.
"Ella" was Samuel Clemens's cousin and one-time sweetheart, Ella
Creel. "Jim" was Jim Wolfe, an apprentice in Orion's office, and
the hero of an adventure which long after Mark Twain wrote under the
title of, "Jim Wolfe and the Cats."
There is scarcely a hint of the future Mark Twain in this early
letter. It is the letter of a boy of seventeen who is beginning to
take himself rather seriously--who, finding himself for the first
time far from home and equal to his own responsibilities, is willing
to carry the responsibility of others. Henry, his brother, three
years younger, had been left in the printing-office with Orion, who,
after a long, profitless fight, is planning to remove from Hannibal.
The young traveler is concerned as to the family outlook, and will
furnish advice if invited. He feels the approach of prosperity, and
will take his mother on a long-coveted trip to her old home in the
spring. His evenings? Where should he spend them, with a free
library of four thousand volumes close by? It is distinctly a
youthful letter, a bit pretentious, and wanting in the spontaneity
and humor of a later time. It invites comment, now, chiefly because
it is the first surviving document in the long human story.
He was working in the printing-office of John A. Gray and Green, on
Cliff Street, and remained there through the summer. He must have
written more than once during this period, but the next existing
letter--also to Sister Pamela--was written in October. It is
perhaps a shade more natural in tone than the earlier example, and
there is a hint of Mark Twain in the first paragraph.
To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:
NEW YORK . . . , Oct. Saturday '53.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have not written to any of the family for some time,
from the fact, firstly, that I didn't know where they were, and secondly,
because I have been fooling myself with the idea that I was going to
leave New York every day for the last two weeks. I have taken a liking
to the abominable place, and every time I get ready to leave, I put it
off a day or so, from some unaccountable cause. It is as hard on my
conscience to leave New York, as it was easy to leave Hannibal. I think
I shall get off Tuesday, though.
Edwin Forrest has been playing, for the last sixteen days, at the
Broadway Theatre, but I never went to see him till last night. The play
was the "Gladiator." I did not like parts of it much, but other portions
were really splendid. In the latter part of the last act, where the
"Gladiator" (Forrest) dies at his brother's feet, (in all the fierce
pleasure of gratified revenge,) the man's whole soul seems absorbed in
the part he is playing; and it is really startling to see him. I am
sorry I did not see him play "Damon and Pythias" the former character
being his greatest. He appears in Philadelphia on Monday night.
I have not received a letter from home lately, but got a "'Journal'" the
other day, in which I see the office has been sold. I suppose Ma, Orion
and Henry are in St. Louis now. If Orion has no other project in his
head, he ought to take the contract for getting out some weekly paper, if
he cannot get a foremanship. Now, for such a paper as the "Presbyterian"
(containing about 60,000,--[Sixty thousand ems, type measurement.])
he could get $20 or $25 per week, and he and Henry could easily do the
work; nothing to do but set the type and make up the forms....
If my letters do not come often, you need not bother yourself about me;
for if you have a brother nearly eighteen years of age, who is not able
to take care of himself a few miles from home, such a brother is not
worth one's thoughts: and if I don't manage to take care of No. 1, be
assured you will never know it. I am not afraid, however; I shall ask
favors from no one, and endeavor to be (and shall be) as "independent as
a wood-sawyer's clerk."
I never saw such a place for military companies as New York. Go on the
street when you will, you are sure to meet a company in full uniform,
with all the usual appendages of drums, fifes, &c. I saw a large company
of soldiers of 1812 the other day, with a '76 veteran scattered here and
there in the ranks. And as I passed through one of the parks lately,
I came upon a company of boys on parade. Their uniforms were neat, and
their muskets about half the common size. Some of them were not more
than seven or eight years of age; but had evidently been well-drilled.
Passage to Albany (160 miles) on the finest steamers that ply' the
Hudson, is now 25 cents--cheap enough, but is generally cheaper than that
in the summer.
I want you to write as soon as I tell you where to direct your letter.
I would let you know now, if I knew myself. I may perhaps be here a week
longer; but I cannot tell. When you write tell me the whereabouts of the
family. My love to Mr. Moffett and Ella. Tell Ella I intend to write to
her soon, whether she wants me to nor not.
Truly your Brother,
SAML L. CLEMENS.
He was in Philadelphia when he wrote the nest letter that has come
down to us, and apparently satisfied with the change. It is a
letter to Orion Clemens, who had disposed of his paper, but
evidently was still in Hannibal. An extended description of a trip
to Fairmount Park is omitted because of its length, its chief
interest being the tendency it shows to descriptive writing--the
field in which he would make his first great fame. There is,
however, no hint of humor, and only a mild suggestion of the author
of the Innocents Abroad in this early attempt. The letter as here
given is otherwise complete, the omissions being indicated.
To Orion Clemens, in Hannibal:
PHILADELPHIA, PA. Oct. 26,1853.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--It was at least two weeks before I left New York, that
I received my last letter from home: and since then, not a word have I
heard from any of you. And now, since I think of it, it wasn't a letter,
either, but the last number of the "Daily Journal," saying that that
paper was sold, and I very naturally supposed from that, that the family
had disbanded, and taken up winter quarters in St. Louis. Therefore, I
have been writing to Pamela, till I've tired of it, and have received no
answer. I have been writing for the last two or three weeks, to send Ma
some money, but devil take me if I knew where she was, and so the money
has slipped out of my pocket somehow or other, but I have a dollar left,
and a good deal owing to me, which will be paid next Monday. I shall
enclose the dollar in this letter, and you can hand it to her. I know
it's a small amount, but then it will buy her a handkerchief, and at the
same time serve as a specimen of the kind of stuff we are paid with in
Philadelphia, for you see it's against the law, in Pennsylvania, to keep
or pass a bill of less denomination than $5. I have only seen two or
three bank bills since I have been in the State. On Monday the hands are
paid off in sparkling gold, fresh from the Mint; so your dreams are not
troubled with the fear of having doubtful money in your pocket.
I am subbing at the Inquirer office. One man has engaged me to work for
him every Sunday till the first of next April, (when I shall return home
to take Ma to Ky;) and another has engaged my services for the 24th of
next month; and if I want it, I can get subbing every night of the week.
I go to work at 7 o'clock in the evening, and work till 3 o'clock the
next morning. I can go to the theatre and stay till 12 o'clock and then
go to the office, and get work from that till 3 the next morning; when I
go to bed, and sleep till 11 o'clock, then get up and loaf the rest of
the day. The type is mostly agate and minion, with some bourgeois; and
when one gets a good agate take,--["Agate," "minion," etc., sizes of
type; "take," a piece of work. Type measurement is by ems, meaning the
width of the letter 'm'.]--he is sure to make money. I made $2.50 last
Sunday, and was laughed at by all the hands, the poorest of whom sets
11,000 on Sunday; and if I don't set 10,000, at least, next Sunday, I'll
give them leave to laugh as much as they want to. Out of the 22
compositors in this office, 12 at least, set 15,000 on Sunday.
Unlike New York, I like this Philadelphia amazingly, and the people in
it. There is only one thing that gets my "dander" up--and that is the
hands are always encouraging me: telling me--"it's no use to get
discouraged--no use to be down-hearted, for there is more work here than
you can do!" "Down-hearted," the devil! I have not had a particle of
such a feeling since I left Hannibal, more than four months ago. I fancy
they'll have to wait some time till they see me down-hearted or afraid of
starving while I have strength to work and am in a city of 400,000
inhabitants. When I was in Hannibal, before I had scarcely stepped out
of the town limits, nothing could have convinced me that I would starve
as soon as I got a little way from home....
The grave of Franklin is in Christ Church-yard, corner of Fifth and Arch
streets. They keep the gates locked, and one can only see the flat slab
that lies over his remains and that of his wife; but you cannot see the
inscription distinctly enough to read it. The inscription, I believe,
reads thus:
"Benjamin |
and | Franklin"
Deborah |
I counted 27 cannons (6 pounders) planted in the edge of the sidewalk in
Water St. the other day. They are driven into the ground, about a foot,
with the mouth end upwards. A ball is driven fast into the mouth of
each, to exclude the water; they look like so many posts. They were put
there during the war. I have also seen them planted in this manner,
round the old churches, in N. Y.....
There is one fine custom observed in Phila. A gentleman is always
expected to hand up a lady's money for her. Yesterday, I sat in the
front end of the 'bus, directly under the driver's box--a lady sat
opposite me. She handed me her money, which was right. But, Lord!
a St. Louis lady would think herself ruined, if she should be so familiar
with a stranger. In St. Louis a man will sit in the front end of the
stage, and see a lady stagger from the far end, to pay her fare. The
Phila. 'bus drivers cannot cheat. In the front of the stage is a thing
like an office clock, with figures from 0 to 40, marked on its face.
When the stage starts, the hand of the clock is turned toward the 0.
When you get in and pay your fare, the driver strikes a bell, and the
hand moves to the figure 1--that is, "one fare, and paid for," and there
is your receipt, as good as if you had it in your pocket. When a
passenger pays his fare and the driver does not strike the bell
immediately, he is greeted "Strike that bell! will you?"
I must close now. I intend visiting the Navy Yard, Mint, etc., before I
write again. You must write often. You see I have nothing to write
interesting to you, while you can write nothing that will not interest
me. Don't say my letters are not long enough. Tell Jim Wolfe to write.
Tell all the boys where I am, and to write. Jim Robinson, particularly.
I wrote to him from N. Y. Tell me all that is going on in H--l.
Truly your brother
SAM.
Those were primitive times. Imagine a passenger in these easy-going days
calling to a driver or conductor to "Strike that bell!"
"H--l" is his abbreviation for Hannibal. He had first used it in a title
of a poem which a few years before, during one of Orion's absences, he
had published in the paper. "To Mary in Hannibal" was too long to set as
a display head in single column. The poem had no great merit, but under
the abbreviated title it could hardly fail to invite notice. It was one
of several things he did to liven up the circulation during a brief
period of his authority.
The doubtful money he mentions was the paper issued by private banks,
"wild cat," as it was called. He had been paid with it in New York,
and found it usually at a discount--sometimes even worthless. Wages and
money were both better in Philadelphia, but the fund for his mother's
trip to Kentucky apparently did not grow very rapidly.
The next letter, written a month later, is also to Orion Clemens, who had
now moved to Muscatine, Iowa, and established there a new paper with an
old title, 'The Journal'.
To Orion Clemens, in Muscatine, Iowa:
PHILADELPHIA, Nov. 28th, 1853.
MY DEAR BROTHER,--I received your letter today. I think Ma ought to
spend the winter in St. Louis. I don't believe in that climate--it's too
cold for her.
The printers' annual ball and supper came off the other night. The
proceeds amounted to about $1,000. The printers, as well as other
people, are endeavoring to raise money to erect a monument to Franklin,
but there are so many abominable foreigners here (and among printers,
too,) who hate everything American, that I am very certain as much money
for such a purpose could be raised in St. Louis, as in Philadelphia.
I was in Franklin's old office this morning--the "North American"
(formerly "Philadelphia Gazette") and there was at least one foreigner
for every American at work there.
How many subscribers has the Journal got? What does the job-work pay?
and what does the whole concern pay?.....
I will try to write for the paper occasionally, but I fear my letters
will be very uninteresting, for this incessant night-work dulls one's
ideas amazingly.
From some cause, I cannot set type nearly so fast as when I was at home.
Sunday is a long day, and while others set 12 and 15,000, yesterday, I
only set 10,000. However, I will shake this laziness off, soon, I reckon
....
How do you like "free-soil?"--I would like amazingly to see a good old-
fashioned negro.
My love to all
Truly your brother
SAM.
We may believe that it never occurred to the young printer, looking
up landmarks of Ben Franklin, that time would show points of
resemblance between the great Franklin's career and his own. Yet
these seem now rather striking. Like Franklin, he had been taken
out of school very young and put at the printer's trade; like
Franklin, he had worked in his brother's office, and had written for
the paper. Like him, too, he had left quietly for New York and
Philadelphia to work at the trade of printing, and in time Samuel
Clemens, like Benjamin Franklin, would become a world-figure, many-
sided, human, and of incredible popularity. The boy Sam Clemens may
have had such dreams, but we find no trace of them.
There is but one more letter of this early period. Young Clemens
spent some time in Washington, but if he wrote from there his
letters have disappeared. The last letter is from Philadelphia and
seems to reflect homesickness. The novelty of absence and travel
was wearing thin.
To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:
PHILADELPHIA, Dec. 5, '53.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have already written two letters within the last two
hours, and you will excuse me if this is not lengthy. If I had the
money, I would come to St. Louis now, while the river is open; but within
the last two or three weeks I have spent about thirty dollars for
clothing, so I suppose I shall remain where I am. I only want to return
to avoid night-work, which is injuring my eyes. I have received one or
two letters from home, but they are not written as they should be, and I
know no more about what is going on there than the man in the moon. One
only has to leave home to learn how to write an interesting letter to an
absent friend when he gets back. I suppose you board at Mrs. Hunter's
yet--and that, I think, is somewhere in Olive street above Fifth.
Philadelphia is one of the healthiest places in the Union. I wanted to
spend this winter in a warm climate, but it is too late now. I don't
like our present prospect for cold weather at all.
Truly your brother
SAM.
But he did not return to the West for another half year. The
letters he wrote during that period have not survived. It was late
in the summer of 1854 when he finally started for St. Louis. He sat
up for three days and nights in a smoking-car to make the journey,
and arrived exhausted. The river packet was leaving in a few hours
for Muscatine, Iowa, where his mother and his two brothers were now
located. He paid his sister a brief visit, and caught the boat.
Worn-out, he dropped into his berth and slept the thirty-six hours
of the journey.
It was early when-he arrived--too early to arouse the family. In
the office of the little hotel where he waited for daylight he found
a small book. It contained portraits of the English rulers, with
the brief facts of their reigns. Young Clemens entertained himself
by learning this information by heart. He had a fine memory for
such things, and in an hour or two had the printed data perfectly
and permanently committed. This incidentally acquired knowledge
proved of immense value to him. It was his groundwork for all
English history. _
Read next: VOLUME I - MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1835[1853]-1866: CHAPTER II - LETTERS 1856-61. KEOKUK, AND THE RIVER. END OF PILOTING
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