Preserve, also, the envelope of this letter—postmark
ought to be good evidence of the date of this great
humanizing and civilizing invention.
I’ll put it into Dan Slote’s hands and
tell him he must send you all over America, to urge
its use upon stationers and booksellers—so
don’t buy into a newspaper. The name of
this thing is “Mark Twain’s Self-Pasting
Scrapbook.”
All well here. Shall be up a P. M. Tuesday.
Send the carriage.
Yr
Bro.
S.
L. Clemens.
The Dan Slote of this
letter is, of course, his old Quaker City
shipmate, who was engaged
in the blank-book business, the firm being
Slote & Woodman, located
at 119 and 121 William Street, New York.
Letters 1872-73. Mark Twain in
England. London honors.
Acquaintance with Dr. John brown.
A lecture triumph. “The
gilded age”
Clemens did, in fact, sail for England
on the given date, and was lavishly received
there. All literary London joined in giving him
a good time. He had not as yet been received
seriously by the older American men of letters,
but England made no question as to his title
to first rank. Already, too, they classified
him as of the human type of Lincoln, and reveled
in him without stint. Howells writes:
“In England, rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced
in him. Lord Mayors, Lord Chief justices,
and magnates of many kinds were his hosts.”
He was treated so well and enjoyed
it all so much that he could not write a book—the
kind of book he had planned. One could not poke
fun at a country or a people that had welcomed
him with open arms. He made plenty of notes,
at first, but presently gave up the book idea
and devoted himself altogether to having a good time.
He had one grievance—a publisher
by the name of Hotten, a sort of literary harpy,
of which there were a great number in those days of
defective copyright, not merely content with pilfering
his early work, had reprinted, under the name
of Mark Twain, the work of a mixed assortment
of other humorists, an offensive volume bearing the
title, Screamers and Eye-openers, by Mark Twain.
They besieged him to lecture in London,
and promised him overflowing houses. Artemus
Ward, during his last days, had earned London by storm
with his platform humor, and they promised Mark Twain
even greater success. For some reason,
however, he did not welcome the idea; perhaps
there was too much gaiety. To Mrs. Clemens he
wrote:
To Mrs. Clemens,
in Hartford:
London,
Sep. 15, 1872. Livy, darling, everybody says
lecture-lecture-lecture—but I have not the
least idea of doing it—certainly not at
present. Mr. Dolby, who took Dickens to America,
is coming to talk business to me tomorrow, though I
have sent him word once before, that I can’t
be hired to talk here, because I have no time to spare.
