There was not a little more of the same sort. Just how it passed through the World office I know not; but it actually appeared. On returning to the table I told the company what Mark Twain and I had done. They thought I was joking. Without a word to any of us, next day Halstead wrote a note to the World repudiating the interview, and the World printed his disclaimer with a line which said: “When Mr. Halstead conversed with our reporter he had dined.” It was too good to keep. A day or two later, John Hay wrote an amusing story for the Tribune, which set Halstead right.
Mark Twain’s place in literature is not for me to fix. Some one has called him “The Lincoln of letters.” That is striking, suggestive and apposite. The genius of Clemens and the genius of Lincoln possessed a kinship outside the circumstances of their early lives; the common lack of tools to work with; the privations and hardships to be endured and to overcome; the way ahead through an unblazed and trackless forest; every footstep over a stumbling block and each effort saddled with a handicap. But they got there, both of them, they got there, and mayhap somewhere beyond the stars the light of their eyes is shining down upon us even as, amid the thunders of a world tempest, we are not wholly forgetful of them.
Chapter the Sixth
Houston and Wigfall of Texas—Stephen A. Douglas—The Twaddle about Puritans and Cavaliers—Andrew Johnson and John C. Breckenridge
I
The National Capitol—old men’s fancies fondly turn to thoughts of youth—was picturesque in its personalities if not in its architecture. By no means the least striking of these was General and Senator Sam Houston, of Texas. In his life of adventure truth proved very much stranger than fiction.
The handsomest of men, tall and stately, he could pass no way without attracting attention; strangers in the Senate gallery first asked to have him pointed out to them, and seeing him to all appearance idling his time with his jacknife and bits of soft wood which he whittled into various shapes of hearts and anchors for distribution among his lady acquaintances, they usually went away thinking him a queer old man. So inded he was; yet on his feet and in action singularly impressive, and, when he chose, altogether the statesman and orator.
There united in him the spirits of the troubadour and the spearman. Ivanhoe was not more gallant nor Bois-Guilbert fiercer. But the valor and the prowess were tempered by humor. Below the surging subterranean flood that stirred and lifted him to high attempt, he was a comedian who had tales to tell, and told them wondrous well. On a lazy summer afternoon on the shady side of Willard’s Hotel—the Senate not in session—he might be seen, an admiring group about him, spinning these yarns, mostly of personal experience—rarely if ever repeating himself—and in tone, gesture and grimace reproducing the drolleries of the backwoods, which from boyhood had been his home.
He spared not himself. According to his own account he had been in the early days of his Texas career a drunkard. “Everybody got drunk,” I once heard him say, referring to the beginning of the Texas revolution, as he gave a side-splitting picture of that bloody episode, “and I realized that somebody must get sober and keep sober.”
From the hour of that realization, when he “swore off,” to the hour of his death he never touched intoxicants of any sort.