He began life as a bookseller’s clerk in London, under the name of John Hotten. By & by his employer discovered a sign up a back street with this legend on it:

“John Hotten, Bookseller.”

So his clerk had hired clerks of his own, & was driving a private trade without his employer’s knowledge. Right enough, perhaps. But when it transpired that John Hotten had stolen his stock of books from his employer, he made a sudden journey to America to escape the consequences. He was in exile here for some time. Then he turned up in England again & chose a new victim. Who? A former benefactor, of course. This was a benefactor who had an excellent business location, & John Camden Hotten (he had added the “Camden,” now) wanted it. He found that the lease was almost out, & he entered into a secret treaty for it with the owners. And he came near getting it, too, before the occupant found it out. . . .

At the present day Hotten is an extensive publisher of cheap literature, at 74 Piccadilly, London, & has & yet, large as his business really is, the man has not a speaking acquaintance personal friend whom a respectable person could dare to associate with. There are so many people who desire to pull his nose that it is next to impossible to find him in his shop. (SLC 1872–73, 5–7)

I suppose the joke wd have succeeded, but I at once brought out my portrait of Mark Twain, & this did the business, altho “Bryce” intensified his sternness & swore—at least he asseverated—he was of that ilk to the last. But the likeness! My goodness me, I never saw anything like it! (CU-BANC)

for your inspection & purchase one of the most remarkable creatures which nature has yet produced. For the sake of convenience I call it the John Camden Hottentot. It is not a bird, it is not a man, it is not a fish, it does not seem to be in all respects a reptile. It has a ‸the‸ body & features of a man, but none of the ins scarcely any of the instincts that belong to such a structure. It will answer to its name, & come with the greatest alacrity to do a mean thing, but will hide away in its lair, with every indication of distress, if it is required to be in any wise accessory to a virtuous action. (SLC 1872 [MT01085], 1–2)

which he commenced a few years ago, and continues to the present day, with such great success. The story of Hotten’s discovery of Bret Harte is now as familiar as a household word, and the persistent way in which he unearthed Mark Twain, who disguised himself under all manner of aliases, is equally well known. . . . Mr. Stanley gives Mr. Hotten full credit for his discoveries in this direction; but complains that the Piccadilly publisher does not pay his humorists for discovering them. . . . It costs Mr. Hotten time and labour and money to discover the Transatlantic humorists; and we do not see why he is so indebted to them. If they would discover themselves, it would be a very different matter; but they do not. (“Stanley on Hotten,” clipping in CU-MARK)

June 14.—Hotten, John Camden, an enterprising but somewhat notorious publisher of London, who republished American novels very largely, altering them, without notice to the authors, to suit his ideas, and often announcing anonymous books of inferior merit, as by popular authors; died in London. (Annual Cyclopaedia 1873, 597–98)

Sir,—It was unkind of “Mark Twain” to write you that note last week concerning myself. You may, perhaps, remember that in June last you permitted me to say in your journal that a so-called “revised edition” of “Mark Twain’s” sketches, recently issued here by another publisher “consisted simply of my own revised editions transposed; in fact, my little books seem to have been sent to some one in New York who returned the sketches intact, but with the arrangement a little altered;” and in proof, I further stated that certain very forcible expressions which I left out as unnecessary were also curiously left out in the “revised edition,” and certain new titles given by me turned up in a most unaccountable manner in the new “author’s revised edition”; and the punctuation, English orthography, and even our printer’s errors all appeared in the new “author’s revised edition” in a way that was simply marvellous—in a way the like of which I never before remember as occurring to an “author’s revised edition.” As no denial of my statement has ever appeared in your journal, I suppose its truth will not now be challenged.

But “in the interest of public morality,” “Mark Twain” complains that I have “composed half-a-dozen chapters and added the same to his books.” Perhaps, in the interest of common-sense, you will allow me to say that I have done nothing of the kind. “Mark Twain” instances five papers as my composition. Whether American humourists as fathers are different from other men I cannot say, but in this instance “Mark Twain” has forgotten his own children. Three of these stories appeared in his own paper, the Buffalo Express, and the others were very generally circulated under his name, without a single denial appearing. Any one interested in the authorship can see the American originals at my office.

“Mark Twain” says that the name “Carl Byng” does not belong to him. I can only say that his brother journalists in New York State must be labouring under an extraordinary delusion, seeing that they always treat “Carl Byng” as “Mark Twain,” and “Mark” himself has never once corrected them, although the statement that the two names refer to one man must have come before him some hundreds of times. The articles signed “Carl Byng,” I may just mention, invariably appear in Mr. Clemens’ paper, the Buffalo Express. But his taste for many noms de plume was curiously displayed only the other day. When Mark Twain called upon me with one of the greatest humourists of Fleet Street, I gave the former a hearty welcome as “Mr. Clemens, the famous ‘Mark Twain,’” but observing that he looked glumpy, his companion took me on one side, and in a hurried manner explained to me that “Mr. Twain” would be much better pleased if addressed as “Mr. Bryce.” I did so, and he seemed greatly cheered up. We talked of the old and modern schools of humour, and after accepting a little book as a present, “Mr. Bryce” left me, and made his way back to Fleet Street.

There is one misapprehension I trust you will allow me to clear up. I have in three years written thrice to Mr. Clemens, but never received one answer. As late as January last I wrote, offering equitable payment for any work he might do for me; and the editor of my English edition of the “Innocents Abroad” [Edward P. Hingston] has also, I believe, been unable to get an answer. To any American author who may either write or edit for me, I will make payment to the best of my ability; but if it is left for me to gather up newspaper trifles, trifles cast off and forgotten, and left to me to obtain a market for their sale in a collected form, with the cheerful probability of another edition appearing at one-sixth of my price,—for such non-copyright raw material, liable to such a contingency, I am not prepared to pay anything, and I do not think any man in his senses would pay.

When “Bret Harte’s” agent called upon me a few days since with a new copyright story, we at once came to terms.—I am, Sir, &c.,

I am sincerely anxious to establish more cordial relations as between Author & Publisher, than have hitherto existed, between you and our firm, and I beg to submit to you a set of the sheets of a volume of your writings, in order that you may (as I understand you expressed a desire to do) correct certain portions of the contents. (Letter-book 6:707, Chatto and Windus)