The Complete Letters. Mark Twain

down to San Jose (generally pronounced Sannozay — emphasis on last syllable) — today fifty miles from here, by railroad. Town of 6,000 inhabitants, buried in flowers and shrubbery. The climate is finer than ours here, because it is not so close to the ocean, and is protected from the winds by the coast range.

      I had an invitation today, to go down on an excursion to San Luis Obispo, and from thence to the city of Mexico, to be gone six or eight weeks, or possibly longer, but I could not accept, on account of my contract to act as chief mourner or groomsman at Steve’s wedding.

      I have triumphed. They refused me and other reporters some information at a branch of the Coroner’s office — Massey’s undertaker establishment, a few weeks ago. I published the wickedest article on them I ever wrote in my life, and you can rest assured we got all the information we wanted after that.

      By the new census, San Francisco has a population of 130,000. They don’t count the hordes of Chinamen.

      Yrs aftly, SAM. I send a picture for Annie, and one for Aunt Ella — that is, if she will have it.

      Relations with the Call ceased before the end of the year, though not in the manner described in Roughing It. Mark Twain loved to make fiction of his mishaps, and to show himself always in a bad light. As a matter of fact, he left the Call with great willingness, and began immediately contributing a daily letter to the Enterprise, which brought him a satisfactory financial return.

      In the biographical sketch with which this volume opens, and more extendedly elsewhere, has been told the story of the trouble growing out of the Enterprise letters, and of Mark Twain’s sojourn with James Gillis in the Tuolumne Hills. Also how, in the frowsy hotel at Angel’s Camp, he heard the frog anecdote that would become the corner-stone of his fame. There are no letters of this period — only some notebook entries. It is probable that he did not write home, believing, no doubt, that he had very little to say.

      For more than a year there is not a line that has survived. Yet it had been an important year; the jumping frog story, published in New York, had been reprinted East and West, and laughed over in at least a million homes. Fame had not come to him, but it was on the way.

      Yet his outlook seems not to have been a hopeful one.

      To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

      SAN FRANCISCO, Jan. 20, 1866. MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER, — I do not know what to write; my life is so uneventful. I wish I was back there piloting up and down the river again. Verily, all is vanity and little worth — save piloting.

      To think that, after writing many an article a man might be excused for thinking tolerably good, those New York people should single out a villainous backwoods sketch to compliment me on! “Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog” — a squib which would never have been written but to please Artemus Ward, and then it reached New York too late to appear in his book.

      But no matter. His book was a wretchedly poor one, generally speaking, and it could be no credit to either of us to appear between its covers.

      This paragraph is from the New York correspondence of the San Francisco Alta:

      (Clipping pasted in.)

      “Mark Twain’s story in the Saturday Press of November 18th, called ‘Jim Smiley and His Jumping Frog,’ has set all New York in a roar, and he may be said to have made his mark. I have been asked fifty times about it and its author, and the papers are copying it far and near. It is voted the best thing of the day. Cannot the Californian afford to keep Mark all to itself? It should not let him scintillate so widely without first being filtered through the California press.” The New York publishing house of Carleton & Co. gave the sketch to the Saturday Press when they found it was too late for the book.

      Though I am generally placed at the head of my breed of scribblers in this part of the country, the place properly belongs to Bret Harte, I think, though he denies it, along with the rest. He wants me to club a lot of old sketches together with a lot of his, and publish a book. I wouldn’t do it, only he agrees to take all the trouble. But I want to know whether we are going to make anything out of it, first. However, he has written to a New York publisher, and if we are offered a bargain that will pay for a month’s labor we will go to work and prepare the volume for the press.

      Yours affy, SAM. Bret Harte and Clemens had by this time quit the Californian, expecting to contribute to Eastern periodicals. Clemens, however, was not yet through with Coast journalism. There was much interest just at this time in the Sandwich Islands, and he was selected by the foremost Sacramento paper to spy out the islands and report aspects and conditions there. His letters home were still infrequent, but this was something worth writing.

      To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

      SAN FRANCISCO, March 5th, 1866. MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER, — I start to do Sandwich Islands day after tomorrow, (I suppose Annie is geographer enough by this time to find them on the map), in the steamer “Ajax.” We shall arrive there in about twelve days. My friends seem determined that I shall not lack acquaintances, for I only decided today to go, and they have already sent me letters of introduction to everybody down there worth knowing. I am to remain there a month and ransack the islands, the great cataracts and the volcanoes completely, and write twenty or thirty letters to the Sacramento Union — for which they pay me as much money as I would get if I staid at home.

      If I come back here I expect to start straight across the continent by way of the Columbia river, the Pend d’Oreille Lakes, through Montana and down the Missouri river, — only 200 miles of land travel from San Francisco to New Orleans.

      Goodbye for the present. Yours, SAM. His home letters from the islands are numerous enough; everything there being so new and so delightful that he found joy in telling of it; also, he was still young enough to air his triumphs a little, especially when he has dined with the Grand Chamberlain and is going to visit the King!

      The languorous life of the islands exactly suited Mask Twain. All his life he remembered them — always planning to return, some day, to stay there until he died. In one of his notebooks he wrote: “Went with Mr. Dam to his cool, vine-shaded home; no careworn or eager, anxious faces in this land of happy contentment. God, what a contrast with California and the Washoe!”

      And again:

      “Oh, Islands there are on the face of the deep Where the leaves never fade and the skies never weep.”

      The letters tell the story of his sojourn, which stretched itself into nearly five months.

      To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

      HONOLULU, SANDWICH ISLANDS, April 3, 1866. MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER, — I have been here two or three weeks, and like the beautiful tropical climate better and better. I have ridden on horseback all over this island (Oahu) in the meantime, and have visited all the ancient battlefields and other places of interest. I have got a lot of human bones which I took from one of these battlefields — I guess I will bring you some of them. I went with the American Minister and took dinner this evening with the King’s Grand Chamberlain, who is related to the royal family, and although darker than a mulatto, he has an excellent English education and in manners is an accomplished gentleman. The dinner was as ceremonious as any I ever attended in California — five regular courses, and five kinds of wine and one of brandy. He is to call for me in the morning with his carriage, and we will visit the King at the palace — both are good Masons — the King is a Royal Arch Mason. After dinner tonight they called in the “singing girls,” and we had some beautiful music; sung in the native tongue.

      The steamer I came here in sails tomorrow, and as soon as she is gone I shall sail for the other islands of the group and visit the great volcano — the grand wonder of the world. Be gone two months.

      Yrs. SAM.

      To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

      WAILUKU SUGAR PLANTATION,

      ISLAND OF MAUI, H. I., May 4,1866. MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,