The Autobiography of Mark Twain by Mark Twain (good book recommendations .TXT) 📕
Description
The Autobiography of Mark Twain is a collection of reminiscences and reflections. Twain began dictating them in 1870, and in 1906 he published Chapters from My Autobiography in twenty-five installments in the North American Review. He continued to write stories for his autobiography, most of which weren’t published in his lifetime due to a lack of access to his papers, or their private subject matters. After Twain’s death, numerous editors have tried to organize this collection of published and unpublished autobiographical works, producing various differing editions. The most recent attempt is by the Mark Twain Project at the University of California, Berkeley, which published a three-volume edition; but, through what many consider legal trickery, the University of California, Berkeley has claimed copyright on that edition until 2047—137 years after Twain’s death.
This Standard Ebooks production is based on Harper and Brothers’ 1924 collection, compiled by Albert Bigelow Paine.
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- Author: Mark Twain
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I am
Yours very sincerely,
John Brown.
We have searched for Doctor John’s letters, but without success. I do not understand this. There ought to be a good many, and none should be missing, for Mrs. Clemens held Doctor John in such love and reverence that his letters were sacred things in her eyes and she preserved them and took watchful care of them. During our ten years’ absence in Europe many letters and like memorials became scattered and lost, but I think it unlikely that Doctor John’s have suffered this fate. I think we shall find them yet.
These thoughts about Jock bring back to me the Edinburgh of thirty-three years ago, and the thought of Edinburgh brings to my mind one of Rev. Joe Twichell’s adventures. A quarter of a century ago Twichell and Harmony, his wife, visited Europe for the first time, and made a stay of a day or two in Edinburgh. They were devotees of Scott, and they devoted that day or two to ransacking Edinburgh for things and places made sacred by contact with the Magician of the North. Toward midnight, on the second night, they were returning to their lodgings on foot; a dismal and steady rain was falling, and by consequence they had George Street all to themselves. Presently the rainfall became so heavy that they took refuge from it in a deep doorway, and there in the black darkness they discussed with satisfaction all the achievements of the day. Then Joe said:
“It has been hard work, and a heavy strain on the strength, but we have our reward. There isn’t a thing connected with Scott in Edinburgh that we haven’t seen or touched—not one. I mean the things a stranger could have access to. There is one we haven’t seen, but it’s not accessible—a private collection of relics and memorials of Scott of great interest, but I do not know where it is. I can’t get on the track of it. I wish we could, but we can’t. We’ve got to give the idea up. It would be a grand thing to have a sight of that collection, Harmony.”
A voice out of the darkness said, “Come upstairs and I will show it to you.”
And the voice was as good as its word. The voice belonged to the gentleman who owned the collection. He took Joe and Harmony upstairs, fed them and refreshed them; and while they examined the collection he chatted and explained. When they left at two in the morning they realized that they had had the star time of their trip.
Joe has always been on hand when anything was going to happen—except once. He got delayed in some vexatious and unaccountable way, or he would have been blown up at Petersburg when the mined defenses of that place were flung heavenward in the Civil War.
When I was in Hartford the other day he told me about another of his long string of providential opportunities. I think he thinks Providence is always looking out for him when interesting things are going to happen. This was the execution of some deserters during the Civil War. When we read about such things in history we always have the same picture—blindfolded men kneeling with their heads bowed; a file of stern and alert soldiers fronting them with their muskets ready; an austere officer in uniform standing apart who gives sharp terse orders: “Make ready. Take aim. Fire.” There is a belch of flame and smoke, the victims fall forward, expiring, the file shoulders arms, wheels, marches erect and stiff-legged off the field, and the incident is closed.
Joe’s picture is different. And I suspect that it is the true one—the common one. In this picture the deserters requested that they might be allowed to stand, not kneel; that they might not be blindfolded, but permitted to look the firing file in the eye. These requests were granted. The men stood erect and soldierly; they kept their color, they did not blench; their eyes were steady. But these things could not be said of any other of the persons present. A general of brigade sat upon his horse, white-faced—white as a corpse. The officer commanding the squad was white-faced—white as a corpse. The firing file were white-faced and their forms wobbled so that the wobble was transmitted to their muskets when they took aim. The officer of the squad could not command his voice, and his tone was weak and poor, not brisk and stern. When the file had done its deadly work it did not march away martially erect and stiff-legged. It wobbled.
This picture commends itself to me as being the truest one that any one has yet furnished of a military execution.
In searching for Doctor Brown’s letters—a failure—we have made a find which we were not expecting. Evidently it
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