CHAPTER X
Mark Twain, the Great Humorist—A Delightful
Speaker—A Chicago Cub Reporter’s Experience—The
Celebrated Cronin Case—W.
T. Stead and Hinky Dink—When
the Former Wrote
“If Christ Came to
Chicago.”
Mark Twain was, in the minds of a multitude, the greatest humorist that America has ever produced. Some of his works are classics, and he gave that human touch to his characters that endeared them to the hearts of his readers. Although his gifted pen is laid away forever, his writings still live as Dickens’s have lived, his characters are undying. What is more human than his Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, his Col. Mulberry Sellars, in the “Gilded Age,” his “Prince and Pauper,” and what works will outlast his Tales of Western Life, and the “Innocents Abroad”?
While I could not say that I was at all intimate with Mark, I have met him a number of times, and have heard him speak brilliantly, and also, while suffering great bodily pain, pathetically endeavoring to be his own bright sunshiny self at banquets, when another person similarly stricken in health would have been abed at home or in the hospital.
I knew Mark better than many others did, however, through my good friend, Ralph W. Ashcroft, now of Montreal, who for many years was his business manager; his wife, Mrs. Ashcroft, (formerly Miss Lyon) was Mark’s capable secretary. They have a thousand and one recollections of Mark, and could give the world a more realistic insight of the dead author than has ever yet been presented.
Few men who ever spoke in public could sway an audience more readily than could Mark Twain. It was a delight to him to play upon the emotions of his hearers, and to transport them in the twinkling of an eye from the verge of tears to the realm of laughter. But I recall two occasions on which his art failed him.
He had been visiting a friend who lived in a small town in New York state, and while there was asked by the superintendent of a local charitable institute if he would be kind enough to come there and talk to the inmates. He said he would be delighted to do so. The next evening, when Mark stepped on the platform of the auditorium, he viewed an audience of both sexes and all ages, and portraying various degrees of intelligence. This was somewhat perplexing, and, for a moment, he was at a loss to decide what kind of talk to give them. However, he launched forth in a general way, and, after a few moments, as he tells it, “I fired a mild one at them.” But there was no response—not even the faintest suggestion of a laugh. All sat with their eyes glued on him, wrapt in wonderment, admiration and respect. This was a poser to Mark, but he continued to talk, and, in a minute or two, he “selected a stronger one and hurled it into their midst.” The result was the same—a morgue-like silence emanating from a group of animate corpses.
Mark’s friend was on the platform with him, and Mark looked appealingly at him. He detected a twinkle of amusement in his friend’s face, but got no encouraging look from him. Mark paused, mentally surveyed his last joke and its manner of delivery, and found both flawless. He was bewildered, but, nevertheless, decided to make a final attempt. He felt that his reputation as a humorist was at stake.
So he continued talking, and finally launched an anecdote that had never failed in his experience to turn an audience inside out with laughter and shrieks of applause. But not a glimmer of amusement was perceptible in his audience—not the remotest suggestion of a laugh or a smile. He was furious—mad right clear through at his failure—and he commenced to “take it out of” his audience in sarcastic vein, ending his talk by complimenting them on their acute appreciation of humor and wit. When he reached his friend’s home, he asked him if he could explain their stupor.
“Why, didn’t you know?” said his friend: “They’re all deaf mutes!”