Delphi Complete Works of Stephen Leacock, page 624
But Artemus, in his own way, called forth a tumultuous and almost affectionate response.
Success upon the public platform, in its highest form, is a rare achievement. A “lecture” can mean anything or nothing — or even less. It runs all the way from solid exposition to artistic “ecstasy.” When a professor lectures on thermo-dynamics, or radioactivity, there is no ecstasy. The professor does not get outside of himself, and the audience keep well within theirs. But when such a man as Charles Dickens lectured, he “carried away” both himself and his audience. These supreme effects are not exactly obtained by acting. They depend on something else — a sort of magnetic stimulation of the imagination and of the audience. This may be done in different ways. Mark Twain did it by being Mark Twain, but Charles Dickens did it by not being Charles Dickens — by shifting somehow into the soul and body of Bill Sykes, the murderer, or becoming Mr. Pickwick and a group of Pickwickians all together. But no written record or transcription can convey the effect. It passes forever with him that produces it.
Artemus Ward had a technique and method of his own. In actual life he was — till his fatal ailment began to wear him down — a merry creature with an appealing eye, a ready smile and a pleasant laugh. On the platform he was solemnity itself. He affected an intense dullness of intelligence. His face was stamped with melancholy. He assumed an air of utter embarrassment, and in this mood, with his assumption of sorrow, he got off the little sayings and epigrams that he called his lectures.
All people realize, as soon as they start to think about it, that there are two schools of humorous performers, the solemn and the hilarious — those who invite laughter by their own solemnity and those who seek it by infectionfrom their own. There is no doubt that the latter is in general the harder task and the higher art. Anyone can be solemn, if only with his own stage misery. But let anyone try to come forward with a little merry, spontaneous laughter and he will soon see how hard is the technique. “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” said Miss Ella Wheeler Wilcox — or someone else. Many “humorists” would wish it were true. One must of course admit that both methods have their place. Among the fun makers of our own day one may set the wilful imbecility of Mr. Jack Pearl “doing” a newly immigrated Ukrainian, beside the smiling and agreeable Mr. Chic Sale introducing the village choir accompanied on a “zither.” Ward’s success was from the first overwhelming.
Just before Artemus Ward started for the West he had gathered his “pieces” into a little volume: Artemus Ward, His Book. It went over “with tumultuous success.” There was a sale of forty thousand copies, and Artemus received six thousand dollars, which lifted him to affluence. His newspaper salary had been only a mere trifle, and for the earlier lectures that he gave he received only from fifteen to twenty-five dollars.
His book was published presently in London and met with an immediate acclaim. It was a case of the meeting of extremes. Nothing could be further from the staid, classical culture of England than the mind and thought of Artemus Ward; nothing further from the humor of Dickens and his imitators than what Artemus Ward brought from over the sea — irreverent burlesque and burlesque irreverence, Gargantuan exaggeration and the orthography of a printer’s delirium. But the English seem to have delighted in the sheer “cussedness” of the new American humor.
There followed Artemus Ward’s visit to England and his triumphant reception in London. He lectured in the Egyptian Hall, crowded to capacity. His manner and his method fascinated the audience. He would stand still till they started to laugh; apologize for his ill-contrived maps, and they laughed again; make a few little comments — more laughs; and so on for an hour of uproarious merriment. And they treated him not as a comic entertainer but as a comic genius. The Savage Club opened its arms to Artemus, Punch its columns and all London its ears. But it was all too bright to last. Artemus was wearing out, he was ill, he was dying. He gave up his work in the hope that rest and sea air might restore him. But his consumption had gone too far. He died at Southampton in March, 1867.
It seems a thousand pities that his success was so brief. In the personal sense it is. But in the history of letters it is doubtful whether Artemus Ward would ever have had much more to give the work than what, still under thirty-three, he had already given. His range was after all but small. One can see no depths in his work. It all lies on the surface. One can see no goal in front of it; it is not leading to anything else. Mark Twain’s early merriment over “jumping frogs” and “petrified men” was to prepare the way for the vast canvas of Huckleberry Finn; in the foreground are little Huck and Nigger Jim talking on their raft, and in the background all the majesty of the Mississippi moving in the mists of sunrise, and with it all the pageant of America. In Mark Twain’s work, even the earliest, in the flashes of description, in the sudden seriousness — one can see all the rest coming. Not so with Artemus Ward. The opinion may at least be hazarded that there was nothing more to come. When Ward died his work was already done. So, perhaps, when Time’s accounts are all closed, it is better as it is. The garland of affection that a loving world has entwined about his memory is as for a lost child. He gave to the world for a short spell the bright happiness of a childish merriment. It was all he had to give, and giving it, he passed on.
ARTEMUS WARD IN THE EGYPTIAN HALL
Artemus Ward’s first lecture in London was delivered on November 13,1866,in the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly. It is reported as follows.
You ARE entirely welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my little picture-show.
I couldn’t give you a very clear idea of the Mormons — and Utah — and the Plains — and the Rocky Mountains — without opening a picture-show — therefore I open one.
I don’t expect to do great things here — but I have thought that if I could make money enough to buy me a passage to New Zealand I should feel that I had not lived in vain.
I don’t want to live in vain. — I’d rather live in Margate — or here. But I wish when the Egyptians built this hall they had given it a little more ventilation.
If you should be dissatisfied with anything here to-night — I will admit you all free in New Zealand — if you will come to me there for the orders. Any respectable cannibal will tell you where I live. This shows that I have a forgiving spirit.
I really don’t care for money. I only travel round to see the world and to exhibit my clothes. These clothes I have on were a great success in America.
How often do large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.
I am not an Artist. I don’t paint myself — though, perhaps,. if I were a middle-aged single lady I should — yet I have a passion for pictures — photographs — taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty — rather sweet to look at for a short time — and as I said before I like them. I’ve always loved pictures.
I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere child I once drew a small cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge. — The people of the village noticed me. I drew their attention. They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.
Time passed on. It always does, by the way. You may possibly have noticed that Time passes on. — It is a kind of way Time has.
I became a man. I haven’t distinguished myself at all as an artist — but I have always been more or less mixed up with Art. I have an uncle who takes photographs — and I have a servant who — takes anything he can get his hands on.
When I was in Rome — Rome in New York State, I mean — a distinguished sculpist wanted to sculp me. But I said “No.” I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands — he would have flooded the market with my busts — and I couldn’t stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course — and wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families. This would be more than my modesty could stand — and I should have to return to America — where my creditors are.
I like Art. I admire dramatic Art — although I failed as an actor.
It was in my schoolboy days that I failed as an actor. — The play was the “Ruins of Pompeii.” — I played the Ruins. It was not a very successful performance — but it was better than the “Burning Mountain.” He was not good. He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask— “Where are the boys of my youth?” — I assure you this is not a conundrum. — Some are amongst you here — some in America — some are in gaol. —
Hence arises a most touching question— “Where are the girls of my youth?” Some are married — some would like to be.
Oh my Maria! Alas! she married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy — because I am. — Some people are not happy. I have noticed that.
A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said “Why these weeps?” He said he had a mortgage on his farm — and he wanted to borrow £200.I lent him the money — and he went away. Some time after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me for ever. I ventured to remind him of the £200 he borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him — so I told him I would throw off one hundred pounds. He brightened — shook my hand — and said— “Old friend — I won’t allow you to out do me in liberality — I’ll throw off the other hundred.”
As a manager I was always rather more successful than as an actor.
Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn’t weigh anything scarcely — and I said to myself — the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. It is a long voyage — as you know — from New York to Melbourne — and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before — and he said it agreed with him. — I thought so! — I never saw a man eat so much in my life. Beef — mutton — pork — he swallowed them all like a shark — and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighted 64 pounds more than I did!
I thought I was ruined — but I wasn’t. I took him on to California — another very long sea voyage — and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as a Fat Man.
This story hasn’t anything to do with my Entertainment, I know — but one of the principal features of my Entertainment is that it contains so many things that don’t have anything to do with it.
My Orchestra is small — but I am sure it is very good — so far as it goes, i give my pianist ten pounds a night — and his washing.
I like Music. — I can’t sing. As a singist I am not a success. I am saddest when I sing. So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am.
The other night some silver-voiced young men came under my window, and sang— “Come where my love lies dreaming.” — I didn’t go. I didn’t think it would be correct.
I found music very soothing when I lay ill with fever in Utah — and I was very ill — I was fearfully wasted. — My face was hewn down to nothing — and my nose was so sharp I didn’t dare stick it into other people’s business — for fear it would stay there — and I should never get it again. And on those dismal days a Mormon lady — she was married — tho’ not so much so as her husband — he had fifteen other wives — she used to sing a ballad commencing “Sweet bird — do not fly away!” — and I told her I wouldn’t. — She played the accordion divinely — accordingly I praised her.
I met a man in Oregon who hadn’t any teeth — not a tooth in his head — yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met. — He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow — I had night mares of course. In the morning the landlord said — How do you feel — old hoss — hay? — I told him I felt my oats.
Chapter Eight . SUNRISE IN THE WEST
THE HAPPY ISOLATION of the Pacific Slope — The Lonely Flowers — Bret Harte: the West His Inspiration, the East His Audience, England His Hotel — Mark Twain — Roughing It — The Colors of the Morning that Made a Gilded Age.
WHILE THE CIVIL WAR was ravaging the republic, and while the Orpheus C. Kerrs and the Petroleum V. Nasebys were enlivening the war public, California, in happy isolation, blossomed into a life of its own. The flowers of literature are like all others: isolated too much they wither upon the stem; if too much crowded, each half-developed blossom helps to choke its fellows. To California in those days of overland distance and Isthmian adventure even the tumult of the war two thousand miles away came only as an echo. It was beyond the immediate reach of the telegraph, the journals and the thoughts of the East. It must look to itself. Already the metropolitan press of New York was beginning its rise to that overshadowing influence since cast over the whole continent. This has become in America one of the great factors of our time, and the centralization of publishing and of the syndicated press in New York and the overwhelming commercialization of literature which it occasions, tends to set up for all writers a single pattern, a single stamp, one kind of joke, one form of prayer. Outside of such a center everything else must grow as best it can in the shade. Great Britain, more fortunate, still has Oxford to chasten London, Manchester, thinking for itself, and Scotland, thinking for the world. Not so our unhappy continent, where the baleful shadow of New York blankets even Canada.
The California of the gold days was too full of life and movement to die of inaction, too isolated to imitate the life of others. In such a new environment all men became men of exception; everybody and everything was interesting and words crowded upon the lip. Newspapers, journals and literature blossomed fast. Nor was humor the least or slowest of the new growth, running to an exuberance of its own, intoxicated by the heady air of the Nevada mountains, and the sunshine of the Californian coast.
Such is what is called in the colleges the genesis of the new California “school” of writers — who never went to school. Of these Bret Harte and Mark Twain stand prééminent.
Francis Bret Harte (1836-1902), of Albany, N. Y., was a delicate, bookish child absorbed in reading and in daydreams and in writing poetry for poetry’s sake. The loss of the family money took him out of school at the age of thirteen, and the quest for a living took him to California at nineteen (1855). There he taught school, worked as a drug clerk and as an express messenger, and then entered the magic gateway of a printing room. Setting type for the Humboldt Times and for the Golden Era soon set him to writing sketches and stories of his own. Within five years he acquired a reputation that filled all California, and within fifteen a celebrity that filled two continents. He left the West in 1871 and never saw it again. After a few years as a writer and lecturer he went to Europe in the consular service — Germany till 1880 and then in Great Britain, where he lived till his death in 1902. But like Mark Twain the West, and the West only, was for Bret Harte his abiding inspiration. The East was just his audience, and England only his hotel. When he ceased to talk about the West, he had nothing more to say.
Bret Harte has a permanent place for his serious writings, among which his poem on the death of Charles Dickens deserves, and has received, immortality. But all of his serious Western tales are permeated with humor, which at times breaks to the surface and floods the page. It is in his lighter verses that this humor is best known. “The Heathen Chinee” belongs to the literature of the world. It would afford the obvious and proper selection from Bret Harte’s humor but that the domain of verse lies outside of the scope of the present volume.
But in another corner of the field of humorous literature Bret Harte achieved a conspicuous and quite unparalleled success. This was in his burlesque stories — the parodies, if one must call them so, in which he imitated the hand, and exposed the shortcomings, of the great masters of contemporary literature. The word “parody” is an ill-used word. There are parodies and parodies. In its schoolroom use a parody is just a more or less silly imitation of the verbal form of an author. But in its higher range it goes much further. Inside of the form there appears a new meaning; a satire directed against the thought of the author. The test of a good parody, or burlesque, is whether it makes good reading without the original. Those of Bret Harte in his Condensed Novels certainly do. More than that — and the fact seems to have escaped the literary historians — they represent American Humor in the real sense. Underneath the surface of many of the stories, the basis of amusement lies not only in the verbal parody but also in the ridicule of the thought and institutions of Europe. This is perhaps best seen in the story called Lothaw, which is quoted in the ensuing chapter. The story represents a satire on the aristocratic and over-elegant life of English society as seen by Western eyes. It is exactly the same theme as that of Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee except that the Yankee’s eyes turn towards machinery and economic life, and those of Bret Harte towards the fads and foibles of society. The fact that Lothaw is a “parody” of Disraeli’s Lothair is of no consequence whatever. It may be like it or it may be not: it doesn’t matter. There are thousands of people, like the writer of this present book, who never read a word of Disraeli’s novels and didn’t know that he wrote Lothair and can yet exult in the delicious satire of Lothaw.
* * * * *
With Bret Harte in California worked the child of the West, the man of the world, the old man of restless wandering, Mark Twain. Round him too were all the colors of the morning. But his fame demands a separate chapter.
Chapter Nine . BRET HARTE’S LOTH AW
