To
Ann E. Taylor
21 and 25 May 1856 • Keokuk, Iowa
(Kansas City Star Magazine, 21 Mar 1926, UCCL 00010)
. . . .
[of the hurricane deck is still visible above the water. Here is another “Royal George” —I think I shall have to be a second Cowper, and write her requiem].1
Well, Annie, I was not permitted to finish my letter Wednesday evening.2 I believe Henry, who commenced his a day later, has beaten me. However, if my friends will let me alone I will go through today. Bugs! Yes, B-U-G-S! What of the bugs? Why, perdition take the bugs! That is all. Night before last I stood at the little press until nearly 2 o’clock, and the flaring gas light over my head attracted all the varieties of bugs which are to be found in natural history, and they all had the same praiseworthy recklessness about flying into the fire. They at first came in little social crowds of a dozen or so, but soon increased in numbers, until a religious mass meeting of several millions was assembled on the board before me, presided over by a venerable beetle, who occupied the most prominent lock of my hair as his chair of state, while innumerable lesser dignitaries of the same tribe were clustered around him, keeping order, and at the same time endeavoring to attract the attention of the vast assemblage to their own importance by industriously grating their teeth. It must have been an interesting occasion—perhaps a great bug jubilee commemorating the triumph of the locusts over Pharaoh’s crops in Egypt many centuries ago. At least, good seats, commanding an unobstructed view of the scene, were in great demand; and I have no doubt small fortunes were made by certain delegates from Yankee land by disposing of comfortable places on my shoulders at round premiums. In fact, the advantages which my altitude afforded were so well appreciated that I soon began to look like one of those big cards in the museum covered with insects impaled on pins.
The big “president” beetle (who, when he frowned, closely resembled Isbell when the pupils are out of time)3 rose and ducked his head and, crossing his arms over his shoulders, stroked them down to the tip of his nose several times, and after thus disposing of the perspiration, stuck his hands under his wings, propped his back against a lock of hair, and then, bobbing his head at the congregation, remarked, “B-u-z-z!” To which the congregation devoutly responded, “B-u-z-z!” Satisfied with this promptness on the part of his flock, he took a more imposing perpendicular against another lock of hair and, lifting his hands to command silence, gave another melodious “b-u-z-z!” on a louder key (which I suppose to have been the key-note) and after a moment’s silence the whole congregation burst into a grand anthem, three dignified daddy longlegs, perched near the gas burner, beating quadruple time during the performance. Soon two of the parts in the great chorus maintained silence, while a treble and alto duet, sung by forty-seven thousand mosquitoes and twenty-three thousand house flies, came in, and then, after another chorus, a tenor and bass duet by thirty-two thousand locusts and ninety-seven thousand pinch bugs was sung—then another grand chorus, “Let Every Bug Rejoice and Sing” (we used to sing “heart” instead of “bug”),4 terminated the performance, during which eleven treble singers split their throats from head to heels, and the patriotic “daddies” who beat time hadn’t a stump of a leg left.
It would take a ream of paper to give all the ceremonies of this great mass meeting. Suffice it to say that the little press “chawed up” half a bushel of the devotees, and I combed 976 beetles out of my hair the next morning, every one of whose throats was stretched wide open, for their gentle spirits had passed away while yet they sung—and who shall say they will not receive their reward? I buried their motionless forms with musical honors in John’s hat.5
Now, Annie, don’t say anything about how long my letter was in going, for I didn’t receive yours until Wednesday—and don’t forget that I tried to answer it the same day, though I was doomed to fail. I wonder if you will do as much?
Yes, the loss of that bridge6 almost finished my earthly career. There is still a slight nausea about my stomach (for certain malicious persons say that my heart lies in that vicinity) whenever I think of it, and I believe I should have evaporated and vanished away like a blue cloud if John—indefatigable, unconquerable John—had not recovered from his illness to relieve me of a portion of my troubles. I think I can survive it now. John says “der chills kill a white boy, but sie (pronounced see) can’t kill a [ Detch-man].”
I have not now the slightest doubt, Annie, that your beautiful sketch is perfect. It looks more and more like what I suppose “Mt. Unpleasant” to be every time I look at it. It is really a pity that you could not get the shrubbery in, for your dog fennel is such a tasteful ornament to any yard. Still, I am entirely satisfied to get the principal beauties of the place, and will not grieve over the loss. I have delighted Henry’s little heart by delivering your message. Give the respected councilman the Latin letter by all means.7 If I understood the lingo well enough I would write you a Dutch one for him. Tell [Mane] 8 I don’t know what Henry thinks of the verb “amo,” but for some time past I have discovered various fragments of paper scattered about bearing the single word “amite,” and since the receipt of her letter the fragments have greatly multiplied and the word has suddenly warmed into “amour” —all written in the same hand, and that, if I mistake not, Henry’s, for the latter is the only French word he has any particular affection for. Ah, Annie, I have a slight horror of writing essays myself; and if I were inclined to write one I should be afraid to do it, knowing you could do it so much better if you would only get industrious once and try. Don’t you be frightened—I guess [Mane ]is afraid to write anything bad about you, or else her heart softens before she succeeds in doing it. Don’t fail to remember me to her—for I perceive she is aware that my funeral has not yet been preached. Ete paid us a visit yesterday, and we are going to return the kindness this afternoon.9 Good-by.
Your friend,
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L1, 59–62; “Personal Glimpses: Sam Clemens in
‘Sideburns’ to ‘Dear Friend
Annie,’” Literary Digest 89 (8
May 1926): 38 and 42; Lorch 1929, 422–25; and Brashear, 167–69.
Provenance:see McKinney Family Papers, pp.
459–61. According to the Star Magazine
article, this letter was one of five Clemens wrote to Ann E. Taylor which
were found by Mrs. Catherine Blackwell among the papers of her brother,
Judge C. A. Cunningham of Carrollton, Mo., after his death in 1920.
Cunningham was married to Ann E. Taylor, who died in 1916. In fact there
were probably no more than four letters: what Mrs. Blackwell took to be a
fifth letter must have been the now missing portion of this one. That part
and two additional letters—perhaps the letters Clemens wrote from
Cincinnati which he mentions in 1 June 57 to Taylor (pp.
71–72)—disappeared after Mrs. Blackwell sent them to
cousins living in the state of Washington (Star
Magazine, 3). None of the four (or five) MSS has been found.
Emendations and textual notes:
of . . . “Royal George” . . . requiem. • “of . . . ‘Royal George’ . . . requiem.” [Printed in the body of the Kansas City Star Magazine article with the introduction: “The last three lines of one of the letters sent to Washington ran over to the first page of one of the remaining letters. Apparently ‘Sam’ was adding a few pages to one long letter every day or two. These three lines read:”. Although the article only implies that this passage belongs to this letter, the facsimile of the first MS page of 1 June 57 to Taylor (the only other possibility) shows clearly that the passage is not part of that one. These words must have been written at the head of the lost MS page above the 25 May dateline of the present letter.]
Sunday, May 25. • Sunday, |May25. [A runaround at this point in the Star Magazine made the type column too narrow to accommodate the dateline all on one line, but the narrow column was probably not the only reason it was printed in two lines. The Star Magazine also printed the dateline of 1 June 57 to Taylor in two lines, even though at that point in the article the type column was amply wide enough to print the dateline on one line as Clemens wrote it. Since Clemens can be seen to have written short datelines all on one line in all letters of this period for which MS or facsimile survives, he probably did so in this instance as well, and we have emended to restore the likely reading of the original.]
Detch-|man • Detch-man
Mane • Marie [The Star Magazine’s misspelling, not surprising in view of the oddity of the nickname ‘Mane’ and its resemblance in Clemens’s hand to ‘Marie’, has been corrected on the basis of two instances of Clemens’s spelling (at 72.11 and 73.30) that appear in the MS facsimiles of 1 June 57 to Taylor, and with the confirmation of the nickname and its spelling from family tradition provided by Gladys Hill.]
Mane • Marie [See previous entry.]
Sam. • Sam. [Although Clemens used double underscores to signify small capitals when marking MS for a printer, he seldom drew them under the signatures of personal letters. The MS facsimile of the end of 1 June 57 to Taylor shows that he did not do so in that case, but the Star Magazine styled that signature in capitals and small capitals when printing it. It is highly probable that Clemens also wrote this signature in the normal way and that the small capitals are the result of styling by the Star Magazine, which is here emended.]
