with a note to the Postmaster
27 April 1867 • New York, N.Y.
(MS: CSmH and CU-BANC, UCCL 00125)
Friend Charles—Every now and then, since, I received your Album, four or five days ago, I have tried to think of some subject proper to be treated in its pages1—one, I mean, which should be so simple that I might talk about it easily and comfortably, and not get myself stiffened out in the confounded straight-jacket language common to Album composition—one which should be learned without being pedantic, dignified without being overpowering, and unpretending without being entirely insignificant. If you have ever exercised your mind in the same direction, you know what the result was, without my telling you. I tried and rejected “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” “The Decline and Fall of Adam and Eve,” and “The Decline and Fall of Gould & Curry,” and then declined to pursue that style of subject any further, and fell to meditating the perpetration of a Poem.2 I dashed off the following felicitous line:
“How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood.”
I rather liked that, but I could not get rid of the impression that I had seen it before, somewhere.3 I have been too strictly raised by my parents to ever think of taking anything that does not belong to me, unless it is something I can eat, or trade off, or something of that kind, and so I scorned to use that line while there was a shadow of doubt in my mind as to whose property it was. Still, it occurred to me that I might borrow it for a model to build a great Poem on without wounding my morbid conscientiousness, and here follows the result:
How sick to my soul are the scenes of my beer-hood,
When sad retrospection presents them to view:—
The station-house, gin-mill and deep-tangled railroad,
(Which never was straight when I walked it at 2—[ a.m. ]),
With the old soaken bummer, the iron-lined bummer,
After I had discharged this fine production from my system, I felt relieved, but not satisfied. I had to confess that I had seen better poems in my time. A conviction of this kind is death to flickering inspiration, and the light of my genius went out. I then went out myself, and took a drink. This latter species of inspiration is the safest to depend upon, after all. By its aid I saw (what I might have seen before, had I not been blinded by ambition,) that no profound essay, full of clattering syllables and sounding rhetoric—no venerable platitudes irreverently tricked out in the gew-gaws and flowers of fancy—no noble Song, fragrant with incense of the [Eden-land ]of Poesy—were required of me, but only to stand up and answer “Here!” when my name was called. I do it with pleasure. I write no essay, no poem, no sermon, but instead, I heartily extend the right hand of fellowship, and say, with simple eloquence, “Here’s luck!”
My young friend—(this is only for form’s sake, you [know—I ]merely introduce it because an Album contribution is necessarily incomplete without a word of fatherly admonition)—My Young Friend, you stand now upon the threshold of the grand, mysterious Future, and you are about to take the most momentous step in the march of your life—let me hope that you will cast from you the vanities and follies and petty ambitions of the world, and endeavor so to conduct yourself as to merit the continued esteem and approbation of
Your cordial friend,
Mark Twain
Charles Warren Stoddard, Esq | “Californian” Office | San Francisco | Cal. [postmarked:] [new-york apr 27] [written above address:]
To Postmaster—Dr. Sir:
Per Steamer—d—n the Overland—
too many Injuns.5
Yrs Resp’y
Mark Twain
¶Refers to Emperor Norton.4
*Refers to me.
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e’ en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. (Woodworth, 12)
Source text(s):
Previous publication:
L2, 35–38; Pourquoi 1880, 357, without the epigraph from “Confucius,” the salutation, or the
mailing label.
Provenance:Stoddard’s autograph album was acquired by CSmH in 1944; the
mailing label was acquired by CU-BANC in 1954 as part of the T. W. Norris Collection, which in turn supplied most of the material for
the Stoddard Collection.
Emendations and textual notes:
Confucius. • [Clemens’s simulated Chinese characters are reproduced in facsimile from the MS. Their authenticity or resemblance to real characters has not been established.]
a.m. • [small capitals simulated, not underscored]
¶ • [mistakenly inscribed as a ‘P’]
Eden-land • Eden- | land
know—I • know——I
NEW-YORK APR 27 • []YORK [PR 2]7 [badly inked]