An enthusiast who had a new system of musical notation,
wrote to me and suggested that a magazine article
from me, contrasting the absurdities of the old system
with the simplicities of his new one, would be sure
to make a “rousing hit.” He shouted
and shouted over the marvels wrought by his system,
and quoted the handsome compliments which had been
paid it by famous musical people; but he forgot to
tell me what his notation was like, or what its simplicities
consisted in. So I could not have written the
article if I had wanted to—which I didn’t;
because I hate strangers with axes to grind.
I wrote him a courteous note explaining how busy I
was—I always explain how busy I am—and
casually drooped this remark:
“I judge the X-X notation to be a rational mode
of representing music, in place of the prevailing
fashion, which was the invention of an idiot.”
Next mail he asked permission to print that meaningless
remark. I answered, no—courteously,
but still, no; explaining that I could not afford
to be placed in the attitude of trying to influence
people with a mere worthless guess. What a scorcher
I got, next mail! Such irony! such sarcasm,
such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to
the public! And withal, such compassion for
my stupidity, too, in not being able to understand
my own language. I cannot remember the words
of this letter broadside, but there was about a page
used up in turning this idea round and round and exposing
it in different lights.
Unmailed
Answer:
Dear sir,—What is the trouble
with you? If it is your viscera, you cannot
have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon.
I mean, if they are inside. But if you are
composed of them, that is another matter. Is
it your brain? But it could not be your brain.
Possibly it is your skull: you want to look
out for that. Some people, when they get an
idea, it pries the structure apart. Your system
of notation has got in there, and couldn’t find
room, without a doubt that is what the trouble is.
Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made
to throw potatoes at.
Yours
Truly.
Mailed
Answer:
Dear sir,—Come, come—take
a walk; you disturb the children.
Yours
Truly.
There was a day, now happily nearly over, when certain
newspapers made a practice of inviting men distinguished
in any walk of life to give their time and effort
without charge to express themselves on some subject
of the day, or perhaps they were asked to send their
favorite passages in prose or verse, with the reasons
why. Such symposiums were “features”
that cost the newspapers only the writing of a number
of letters, stationery, and postage. To one
such invitation Mark Twain wrote two replies.
They follow herewith:
Unmailed
Answer:
