story, and it became widely known in America, India,
China, England—and the reputation it made
for me has paid me thousands and thousands of dollars
since. Four or five months ago I bought into
the Express (I have ordered it sent to you as long
as you live—and if the book keeper sends
you any bills, you let me hear of it.) I went heavily
in debt never could have dared to do that, Jim, if
we hadn’t heard the jumping Frog story that
day.
And wouldn’t I love to take old Stoker by the
hand, and wouldn’t I love to see him in his
great specialty, his wonderful rendition of “Rinalds”
in the “Burning Shame!” Where is Dick
and what is he doing? Give him my fervent love
and warm old remembrances.
A week from today I shall be married to a girl even
better, and lovelier than the peerless “Chapparal
Quails.” You can’t come so far, Jim,
but still I cordially invite you to come, anyhow—and
I invite Dick, too. And if you two boys were
to land here on that pleasant occasion, we would make
you right royally welcome.
Truly
your friend,
SAML
L. Clemens.
P. S. “California plums are good, Jim—particularly
when they are stewed.”
Steve Gillis, who sent a copy of his
letter to the writer, added: “Dick
Stoker—dear, gentle unselfish old Dick-died
over three years ago, aged 78. I am sure
it will be a melancholy pleasure to Mark to know
that Dick lived in comfort all his later life, sincerely
loved and respected by all who knew him.
He never left Jackass Hill. He struck
a pocket years ago containing enough not only to build
himself a comfortable house near his old cabin,
but to last him, without work, to his painless
end. He was a Mason, and was buried by
the Order in Sonora.
“The ’Quails’—the
beautiful, the innocent, the wild little Quails —lived
way out in the Chapparal; on a little ranch near the
Stanislaus River, with their father and mother.
They were famous for their beauty and had many
suitors.”
The mention of “California plums”
refers to some inedible fruit which Gillis once,
out of pure goodness of heart, bought of a poor wandering
squaw, and then, to conceal his motive, declared that
they were something rare and fine, and persisted
in eating them, though even when stewed they
nearly choked him.
Letters 1870-71. Mark Twain in
Buffalo. Marriage. The Buffalo
express. “Memoranda.”
Lectures. A new book
Samuel L. Clemens and Olivia Langdon
were married in the Langdon home at Elmira, February
2, 1870, and took up their residence in Buffalo
in a beautiful home, a wedding present from the bride’s
father. The story of their wedding, and
the amusing circumstances connected with their
establishment in Buffalo, have been told elsewhere.—[Mark
Twain: A Biography, chap. lxxiv.]
Mark Twain now believed that he
was through with lecturing. Two
letters to Redpath, his agent, express his comfortable
condition.
