Dear Mark Twain: Letters from His Readers

Dear Mark Twain

JUMPING FROGS

UNDISCOVERED, REDISCOVERED, AND CELEBRATED WRITINGS

OF MARK TWAIN

Named after one of Mark Twain’s best-known and beloved short stories, the Jumping Frogs series of books brings neglected treasures from Mark Twain’s pen to readers.

Is He Dead? A Comedy in Three Acts, by Mark Twain. Edited with foreword, afterword, and notes by Shelley Fisher Fishkin. Text established by the Mark Twain Project, The Bancroft Library. Illustrated by Barry Moser.

Mark Twain’s Helpful Hints for Good Living: A Handbook for the Damned Human Race, by Mark Twain. Edited by Lin Salamo, Victor Fischer, and Michael B. Frank of the Mark Twain Project, The Bancroft Library. Illustrated by Barry Moser.

Mark Twain’s Book of Animals, by Mark Twain. Edited with introduction and afterword by Shelley Fisher Fishkin.

Dear Mark Twain: Letters from His Readers. Edited with introduction and notes by R. Kent Rasmussen.

Dear Mark Twain

Letters from His Readers

Edited by

R. Kent Rasmussen

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

BerkeleyLos AngelesLondon

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press

Berkeley and Los Angeles, California

University of California Press, Ltd.

London, England

© 2013 by The Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dear Mark Twain : letters from his readers / edited by R. Kent Rasmussen.

p. cm. —(Jumping frogs ; 4)

Includes index.

ISBN 978-0-520-26134-1 (cloth : alk. paper)

eISBN 9780520955165

1. Twain, Mark, 1835–1910—Correspondence. 2. Authors, American—19th century—Correspondence. 3. Authors and readers—United States. 4. Humorists, American—19th century—Correspondence. I. Rasmussen, R. Kent. II. Twain, Mark, 1835–1910.

PS1331.A435 2013

818’.409—dc23

2012033968

Manufactured in the United States of America

21  20  19  18  17  16  15  14  13  12

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

In keeping with a commitment to support environmentally responsible and sustainable printing practices, UC Press has printed this book on Rolland Enviro100, a 100% post-consumer fiber paper that is FSC certified, deinked, processed chlorine-free, and manufactured with renewable biogas energy. It is acid-free and EcoLogo certified.

To the

memory of

Mary Keily,

faithful friend of

John Wilkes Booth

and John the Baptist

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of

the Humanities Endowment Fund of the University of California

Press Foundation.

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Foreword by Ron Powers

Introduction

Note on Texts

LETTERS

1861–1870

1871–1880

1881–1890

1891–1900

1901–1910

Note on Sources

Acknowledgments

Index of Correspondents’ Locations

Index of Mark Twain Characters and Works

General Subject Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

1.Markiss the Liar

2.First page of letter from B. W. Smith

3.Dan in Innocents Abroad

4.The suspicious Roughing It flyleaf

5.Cover of Will Clemens’s Mark Twain

6.Advertisement for Mark Twain’s self-pasting scrapbook

7.Letter from Eben P. Dorr

8.Letter from Ola A. Smith

9.Letter from Wallace W. Muzzy

10.The counterfeit presentment

11.An 1882 autograph-seeking card

12.Grant Mitchell as the kindly migrant camp caretaker in The Grapes of Wrath

13.Postcard from Mollie Kane

14.Advertisement for the Paul E. Wirt fountain pen

15.How the narrator actually climbed the Great Pyramid

16.Ellis Parker Butler

17.The wood buffalo chasing Bemis

18.The Yankee holding Hello-Central

19.An 1892 drawing by Elsa Hinterleitner

20.Samuel Clemens with a reformer

21.Edwin Brenholtz

22.Letter to the editor of Harper’s Weekly

23.Willie Shine painting the house boat on the river

24.Frederick Bartlett Goddard

25.Letter and sketch from William Steinke

FOREWORD

Reading this book gave me the fantods. The good fantods, if Huck will permit me such a distinction, not the bad ones. In fact it made me feel transported.

Transported back up the river of time, like some Connecticut Yankee, and deposited among a few of the ordinary Americans, along with a sprinkling of Europeans, who read the works of Mark Twain while he was still alive. Able to listen to them as they formed their thoughts about how his books affected them; their reckonings as to what sort of fellow he might be; their frequently nursed fantasies of him stepping from the ether and directly into their own lives. (And of hitting him up for a sawbuck or two—another frequently nursed fantasy.)

R. Kent Rasmussen is not a time traveler, but he is the next best thing. In Dear Mark Twain he has achieved a triumph of warmhearted and bravura scholarship unique, as far as I can determine, in the plentiful annals of literary correspondence.

Granted, our library bookshelves are well stocked with collections of letters going back and forth between authors and those who knew them: family members, friends, enemies, editors, other eminences of their time. Mark Twain himself is well represented in this genre. Beginning with his first biographer, Albert Bigelow Paine, editors have issued volumes of his epistolary conversations with his great friend William Dean Howells and with the financier Henry Huttleston Rogers, and of his tender courtship and married-love letters to Olivia Langdon. The splendidly annotated six-volume series Mark Twain’s Letters, edited by the Mark Twain Project at Berkeley, published by the University of California Press, and now available online, amounts virtually to a work of historical literature in itself. What we have not had before Mr. Rasmussen’s fine endeavor is an assemblage of letters to an author from common readers. Perhaps this is because few great writers have considered such messages to be worth keeping. Perhaps it is because their executors lacked the curiosity to riffle through any stacks of mail from obscure or anonymous sources. My own hunch is that the author of Life on the Mississippi and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn struck a chord among his fellow proletarian citizens that the prevailing priests of prose writing—the Emersons and Longfellows and Holmeses and Hawthornes, bless them all—were unable to reach. I will explore below the reasons why this is likely to be truth.

Whatever the reasons, Dear Mark Twain gives us an extremely rare, and thus exhilarating, glimpse into the sensibilities of nineteenth-century people. Of course one might point as well to documents such as letters from Civil War soldiers and the slave narratives gathered in the 1930s by WPA interviewers. Yet those chronicles, though often brilliant in style and sentiment, tend to be self-limiting: their concerns distill to their estranged families, their personal struggles, and their strategies for survival. The correspondence collected (and tirelessly annotated) here by Mr. Rasmussen is from everyday folks writing from the security of their everyday habitats, and thus more disposed to reveal themselves on a wide range of topics. They were people of both genders and all ages. They were farmers, schoolteachers and schoolchildren, businessmen, preachers, customs agents, inmates of mental institutions, con artists, dreamers of various sorts, and at least one former president.

Among the desires they held in common was one expressed in the oft-repeated postscript: Please write soon.

They could be cheekily artful (Gracious Sir:—You are rich. To lose $10.00 would not make you miserable. I am poor. To gain $10.00 would not make me miserable. Please send me $10.00 [ten dollars]) and achingly artless (What I want to know is by what rule a fellow can infallibly judge when you are lying and when you are telling the truth. I write this in case you intend to afflict an innocent and unoffending public with any more such works). A fair amount were naive (Dear Huck—I like your book and you and Tom Sawyer and Jim. . . . I wish you would write another book and tell us if Aunt Sally ‘civilized’ you. How old are you? I am thirteen); a few were dyspeptic ("Dear Sir: For Gods sake give a suffering public a rest on your labored wit.—Shoot your trash & quit it.—You are only an imitator of Artemas Ward & a sickening one at that & we are all sick of you, For Gods sake take a tumble & give U.S. a rest.—").

Many of the letters—a good deal too many, for Mark Twain’s taste—were bids for his signature. ("A few lines with your Name would be very acceptable; I am taking a great deal of interest in your collection of long German words. I send you hereby [a] ‘noble’ specimen, at the condition that you will send me your autograph, an autograph written by you not by your secretary"). Clearly, the commodity value of this ancient fetish was rising in the Gilded Age. Even more infuriating to the author were the brazen assumptions that his literary talents were available to any stranger on demand:

I am on the ragged edge of sending a book of nonsense to the nonsense reading public. . . . I want the people to see that I am known to the literary world, and my object in writing to you is simply to give me a few words . . . with your name (Mark Twain) attached. Thus, a few scratches of your pen will cost you nothing and will help me a great deal. For instance, you might say It ought to sell or something similar. You see my object.

Message received. And then there were the jackleg entrepreneurs—plenty of those, too.

We are two sin twisters (we meant to write twin sisters) of Cape Cod, have lived here all our lives with a few interruptions; we never went to a big city, never saw a publisher, are afraid of big cities and publishers. But something happened in this locality a while ago that we have written into a book and want dreadfully to publish. So we want to know if you will let us send you the M.S.S. and read it and approve it and send it to that unknown animal the publisher and tell him to put it in print. . . . Don’t forget to answer.

He didn’t answer, but filed the epistle away under the scrawl: Villains.

Mark Twain, voracious pack rat that he was for any scrap of Americana—see his wildly eclectic notebooks, also compiled and published by the Mark Twain Project—hoarded his readers’ letters as did few if any of his contemporaries. As with the sin twisters ploy, they seem to have given him only sporadic cause for satisfaction. (From an ass was another favorite verdict.) His compassion was triggered in unpredictable ways. A woman named Ellen Keily, who signed herself Mary, wrote him more than a dozen long, semicoherent letters from incarceration at an insane asylum in Pennsylvania in the 1880s. From my lunatic was his identifying annotation on this bundle, and he answered only one. But the tone of his reply was distinctly gentler than his responses to those he considered mountebanks and fools. To Keily’s request for five dollars to buy a turkey and other eatables to make up a Plain dinner that I would cook myself and invite several ministers including the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher to share it, he was consummately tactful, even playful. I think your idea of getting those clergymen together at a dinner table is a very good one, he told her. They will have to put up with each other’s society a good long time in heaven, so they may as well begin to get used to it here. He demurred on the opportunity to show up and carve the turkey, explaining, Always when I carve a turkey I swear a little. . . . I think a person ought not to swear where clergymen are, unless they provoke him.

One might think that Mr. Rasmussen’s task here was almost embarrassingly simple—pie, as Tom Sawyer would have put it: just show up at Robert Hirst’s overflowing archive, put in a request for photocopies of letters written to Mark Twain, arrange them chronologically, think up a title, and send them off to that unknown animal the publisher. Had he been content with that approach, the book in front of you would have remained an entertaining curiosity. But Rasmussen had a more challenging goal in mind. Like a good novelist who understands the importance of touching every character in a story with the human spark, Rasmussen desired to make as many of those letter writers as possible come alive on the page, if only for a few moments.

Thus commenced the time travel. Burrowing into census records in scores of municipalities, scrolling through microfiche reels of century-old newspapers for obituaries, checking out city directories, consulting history volumes of towns, businesses, and civic organizations, and even (horrors!) keying into online sources, Rasmussen has reconstructed a small cross section of American people as they lived, breathed, thought, and behaved in their time.

The writer of one admiring but unremarkable letter, for example, Henry Gauthier-Villars, emerges as the first husband of the French novelist Colette (1873–1954) and as the first person to publish a book about Mark Twain. A woman named Vashti D. Garwood, who wrote a rather elegant request for money to help buy a house, offering to make Mark Twain a beneficiary of her life insurance policy as collateral, is revealed to have outlived him by eight years. We further find that Garwood was an ambitious graduate of Boston University’s homeopathic medical school; that she bore four children and then in the 1880s separated from her presumably more complacent husband and became an assistant to two professors at the University of Michigan; that she had been involved in the women’s temperance movement in Kansas and later, with a daughter, helped found the Ann Arbor Equal Suffrage Club. And for good mea sure, Rasmussen tosses in the fact that her first name was an icon of the women’s rights movement: in the Bible, Vashti was a Persian queen who defied her husband and was replaced by Esther. These details add complexity and poignance to a figure who otherwise would have seemed pathetic.

Dear Mark Twain, in short, leaves the reader with little doubt as to the singular and powerful chord that this author struck in the hearts of the American public. But what were the psychic integuments of that chord? What created this subtext of yearning that courses through so many of these letters? Why did so many of the writers not simply reach out to Mark Twain, but yearn to close the distance and touch him? To possess him, in some cases, as his works had taken possession of them. The answer may lie in the fact that he had touched them first—if not as individuals, then as representatives of typic American individuals. An entire book could be written that simply lists and illuminates the astounding number of intersections he made, first as Samuel Clemens and later as Mark Twain, with the people and the seminal developments and events that defined nineteenth-century America. No other important American author could come close to matching his perambulations across the continent and, later, the globe.

His arrival in the world in 1835 coincided with the dawn of mass communications, mass transportation, and mass education. Steam presses now propelled the rise of the great urban dailies in the East. Steam engines chugged along the newly laid railroad lines eating westward through the wilderness, turning remote outposts into towns and small cities. The trains’ cargoes included the recently perfected lightweight, hand-operated Ramage presses that were to enable every hamlet to boast its own Gazette or Courier. By 1835 such presses had reached the Mississippi River. Hard on the presses’ trail, Samuel Morse’s telegraph began un-spooling its cables. By the 1840s, telegraph lines were flashing news of great events that found its way into the smallest of weekly papers.

Newspapers, railroads, and the telegraph began reshaping the American West just in time for Sammy Clemens to form his consciousness of it. Among his first jobs was as a paper boy for the Hannibal Gazette; not long afterward, he was setting type for his older brother Orion’s Journal.

Sam made his first journey of discovery involving other people when he was four. He scampered through an orchard and a stand of hickory trees to a few rough cabins on the far side of his uncle John Quarles’s farm in Florida, Missouri, where his family lived for a while before moving to Hannibal. Pushing through a doorway, the pale red-haired child would enter a subcivilization that had endured in the New World for 210 years, and whose existence would mercifully vanish in another twenty-six. These were slave quarters, repositories of suffering and stunted human lives, yet also repositories of a rich, encoded oral tradition that Sammy absorbed and intuitively understood. His immersion in the currents of Negro voices—singing voices, praying voices, storytelling voices—opened his mimetic mind and his heart to this jazzlike bounty of rhythmic speech, and he heard the vernacular poetry inside the speech and eventually enshrined that poetry in his literature.

While still in his teens, Sam Clemens rocketed out of Hannibal one spring evening and improvised an eastward itinerary that took him eventually to Washington and the visitors’ gallery of the U.S. Senate, where he watched as Stephen A. Douglas and William H. Seward debated whether to repeal the Missouri Compromise. He would return to the capital after the Civil War as a reporter. There, he would gather character sketches and insights into corrupt power for his contributions to The Gilded Age (1873), America’s first novel of Washington politics, which he would coauthor with Charles Dudley Warner.

Then it was back west to the Interior, where in 1857 he boarded a packet on the Cincinnati docks, talked his way into a pilot apprenticeship, and floated into America’s first mythic age, the age of steamboating. He became its greatest chronicler, and again immersed himself in the voices and behavior of its denizens. Then came a brief toe-dipping in the Civil War as an irregular Confederate Marion Ranger in Missouri—three weeks that would later inspire him to write a short story that would become one of the war’s enduring works, The Private History of a Campaign That Failed.

Sam excused himself from the war and headed out to Nevada with his older brother, Orion, who had secured a political secretary position in the new territory. Here Sam found himself present at another creation of Americana. Drawn to mining for gold and silver on the Comstock Lode, he rubbed shoulders with speculators, gamblers, gunslingers, showgirls, prostitutes, and other denizens of what came to be known as the Wild West.

A failure at mining, Sam in desperation turned to newspapering as a reporter for the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise. Here, at this freewheeling ancestor of the alternative newspaper, he was free to develop these rough new acquaintances and their pared-down speaking styles into fodder for his newspaper dispatches and sketches: the first drafts of the great writing to come. It was in this period that he took his pen name Mark Twain.

His next stop was the city, and the demimonde, that incubated the American counterculture. Absquatulating to San Francisco ahead of a furious rival editor who had taken him seriously in his giddy challenge to a duel, Sam alighted, as if guided by radar, in the midst of that city’s bohemian artist community, and he soaked up its attitudes and styles. The actors, dancers, poets, and tale tellers who welcomed him (Bret Harte and the wild protofeminist Adah Isaacs Menken among them) further legitimized Sam’s appetite for the revisive view, the satirical take, and the stance of unterrified, biting honesty. Tell all the truth but tell it slant, his contemporary Emily Dickinson wrote at some point in her cloistered life. Mark Twain may never have read those lines, but he put them into practice.

He brought those vernacular voices with him when he returned East in 1867. They joined the vast inventory of other voices stored in his remarkable mimetic memory: the slave voices from his toddler years; the voices of Mississippi steamboatmen and their passengers; the Kentucky-seasoned voice of his mother, Jane; the homespun voices of the preachers and teachers and his fellow typesetters in Hannibal; the voices of Washington politicians and poltroons; the voices of pursed-lipped matrons and naïve pretty girls and the children who conspired and frolicked everywhere. He rammed them into the nation’s emerging nativist literature, which he largely legitimized, sending the once-dominant Anglophilic voice of polite learned discourse sprawling like the Dandy dunked by the Squatter.

The Americans who bought his books and read his magazine pieces recognized themselves in him. They rejoiced in this writer who thought and framed his thoughts as they did (only better), who writes English as if it were a primitive and not a derivative language, as Howells put it, without Gothic or Latin or Greek behind it, or German and French beside it. They welcomed an author and essayist of substance who was self-assured enough to reject the European-derived pieties and flourishes favored by the Boston Brahmins who still unconsciously accepted Europe’s condescending verdict on American culture: that it remained an oxymoron.

Their gratitude was summed up by a letter from a self-confessed old man, farmer and invalid of two years standing from Georgia who wrote in 1870

to thank you for filling a void in the Galaxy. . . . [I]t is hard labour to read continuously the stilted sentiment of the time and of the hundreds of books & papers I have read during several years back, excepting Mr Dickens works, I do not remember to have seen humour enough in any one to excite a laugh, until yr appearance in the Galaxy.

Rejecting the stilted sentiment of the time: therein lay the core affinity between Mark Twain and his readers, the quality that distinguished him from his more learned, and often equally profound, literary peers.

What enabled him to achieve this rejection and employ his nonpareil ear for vernacular, un-Latinate speech and sentiments? Yet another of those intersections between Mark Twain and his times, perhaps the most important intersection of all.

Samuel Clemens came of age with the first generation of mass readers in the nation’s history—the world’s history. The Promethean spark that tore through his countrymen’s social, economic, and rural–urban classes (all save its enslaved classes) in the 1850s ignited Sammy Clemens of the western backwater village Hannibal, Missouri.

The spark had a quite specific origin. "By the time of the Civil War (1861–65), America had seen the first mass-educated and mass-literate generation in the modern world come of age, largely through schools adopting en masse William H. McGuffey’s Eclectic Readers." So writes the Ulster scholar of popular culture John Springhall. By the 1870s this generation had swelled to span the republic’s cities and towns and far-flung farms and villages and frontiers.

Mark Twain makes no specific mention of the famous McGuffey’s Reader, which replaced the difficult New England Primer (an early whole-language model) with phonics. But the Reader was sold door-to-door across the hinterlands during Sam Clemens’s boyhood, and Dixon Wecter, one of his most observant scholars, cites it as a learning tool for him.

Sam and his generation were not much interested in the high and fine literature, endorsed by the Brahmins, that he slyly lampooned in an 1887 letter to his friend Howells. They were interested in information: about their republic-in chrysalis; about their fellow citizens beyond the curve of the earth; about themselves. They wanted this information delivered with the inflections of someone like themselves and who told the truth. Mainly.

While the high and fine works of the eastern literati decorated the shelves of the eastern urban bookstores, Mark Twain’s books were sold door-to-door, by subscription, just like the Reader itself. And the water in them coursed through the American consciousness and that of the world like the Mississippi.

Nor did that water run dry with his death in 1910. The yearning, affinity-seeking correspondents in the present volume have their counterparts in readers today, including readers from around the globe who open Dear Mark Twain and find themselves staring back from the mirror of history. It was an admirer from Denmark, one Carl Jensen, who may have most strikingly summed it all up:

Please to excuse that I fall with the door in the house, without first to begin with the usual long ribble-row. I want to become the autograph of the over alle the world well known Mark Twain, whose narratives so apt have procured me a laughter.

Perhaps Mr. Jensen had not completed his mastery of English syntax. I prefer to think that he was awash in the fantods. The good fantods.

Ron Powers

Castleton, Vermont

January 27, 2012

Introduction

More than one hundred years after his death, Mark Twain ranks as one of the most thoroughly documented and studied writers of his time. In addition to countless reprints of his books, the past century has seen publication of scores of editions of his previously unpublished works, plus collections of his journalism, speeches, letters, notebooks, autobiographical dictations, and interviews. Books about Mark Twain now number in the hundreds, articles in the thousands, with no letup in sight. Can anything truly fresh still be added to our understanding of him? One answer may be found in this volume.

Dear Mark Twain presents a selection of previously unpublished letters Samuel L. Clemens received from readers between 1863, the year he adopted the pen name Mark Twain, and 1910, the year he died. Most are from ordinary people he never met. Though long known to scholars, these letters constitute an important documentary resource that has been little tapped. More than any other type of documents, they reveal what average readers thought of Clemens, Mark Twain, and his works. Writing with no thought that their letters would ever be seen by other eyes,¹ many readers expressed an incredible warmth of feeling and closeness to Clemens, often bursting with eagerness to declare how he touched their lives. Although many letters exhibit considerable passion, the warmth they exude is not always positive. Numerous letters are highly negative. Others are self-serving bids for personal help, attention, or publicity.

This volume is not a collection of fan mail, but rather a broadly representative cross section of the wide range of opinions, feelings, and subjects expressed in all the letters Clemens received from readers. Each letter offers a fascinating glimpse into what people outside the worlds of professional criticism and scholarly study thought of Clemens during his lifetime. Many are deeply moving, more than a few are hilarious, some may be shocking, few are dull.

THE COLLECTION

Dear Mark Twain may lay claim to two notable firsts. It is the first published collection of letters to Clemens from readers. As early as a century ago, Albert Bigelow Paine, Clemens’s literary executor and the first editor of the Mark Twain Papers, inserted extracts from reader letters in his monumental study, Mark Twain: A Biography—The Personal and Literary Life of Samuel Langhorne Clemens (New York, 1912).² Since Paine’s death in 1935, Clemens’s correspondence files have been open to other researchers, many of whom have discussed and quoted reader letters in their own books.³ Until now, however, no one troubled to gather a selection of these letters into a book.⁴ This long delay may have had something to do with the fact that no collection of similar letters to any nineteenth-century author had ever been published. Had other such collections already existed, a book like Dear Mark Twain probably would have appeared well before now.⁵ The present volume therefore is also very likely the first published collection of authentic reader letters to any nineteenth-century author and, at the least, one of the few such collections for an author of any era.⁶

The absence of similar collections of letters to other authors in itself says much about Clemens, who was not the only writer known to receive large volumes of mail from readers. Some writers, in fact, may have received even more mail than he did. The English novelist Charles Dickens is one possible example. Although he received an immense volume of mail from readers; however, virtually none of it has survived. Alarmed by the prospect that his intimate correspondence might one day be published, Dickens put his accumulated letters and papers to the torch in 1860. He continued to burn his mail throughout the rest of his life. More than fourteen thousand of his own letters have survived, but almost none written to him escaped the flames.⁷

The French novelist Jules Verne, a closer contemporary of Clemens, provides another interesting case. In 1890, a magazine reported that Verne had filed away over two thousand letters from his American readers alone.⁸ Claims that Verne received more fan mail than any other author cannot be confirmed, however, because virtually all his reader letters have apparently disappeared.⁹

Clemens differed from most authors in his attitude toward saving manuscripts and correspondence. He seemingly tried to keep almost everything. Equally remarkable is the fact that so much of his manuscript material survived the dislocations not only of his shifting residences and extensive travels but also vicissitudes in their later stewardship. Some correspondence has certainly been lost, but thanks to Clemens’s pack-rat habits and the meticulous preservation of documents by the Mark Twain Papers of the University of California’s Bancroft Library, a substantial trove of letters from readers has survived to make possible the present book.¹⁰ One wonders why Clemens saved these letters. Did he simply hate to discard manuscript material? Was he conscious of its possible value to his future literary reputation? Or did he think he might later find uses for some of the letters?¹¹

CONTENT OF THE LETTERS

Considered purely on their intrinsic interest, these letters make for fascinating and often entertaining reading. Many strain to be humorous, but the funniest are often those that are unintentionally amusing, such as a Dane’s autograph request written in English so badly fractured that Clemens specially marked it for preservation.¹² Especially common are letters with presumably serious but outlandish requests and propositions. What makes them comical is their authors’ presumption in thinking that Clemens would respond with anything other than angry expletives. A curious example is a struggling writer who wanted to test the literary judgment of editors by having Clemens write for him an article he would try to sell under his own name to see if it would fetch ten dollars. If his experiment worked, he promised to send Clemens the ten dollars.¹³

Some letters are amusing because their authors’ attempts to be funny actually succeed. Such letters are rare, but when Clemens received one—such as a Protestant minister’s complaint about his hands getting stuck to a self-pasting scrapbook—he was not above recording his appreciation.¹⁴ However, most readers’ attempts at humor fail dismally. A common thread running through many is lame attempts to amuse or provoke Clemens by throwing his own words back at him—typically in the form of puns. The frequency of letters playing on Innocents Abroad and Roughing It alone must have become irksome, and more than a few letters offered weak puns such as Clemens-y.

The letters can also be read as mirrors reflecting the images Clemens cast on the world. Clemens worked hard at crafting his own public image and must have been gratified by the obviously sincere affection many readers expressed. An 1877 letter from a Pennsylvania man asking for help in getting published in the Atlantic Monthly expresses a reaction to Clemens’s writings that many other readers felt: "I have not thought of preparing this request to any one else, and hardly know why I have ventured to thus address you—except it is, that I