When one receives an application of this sort, his first emotion is an indignant sense of insult; his first deed is the penning of a sharp answer.He blames nobody but that other person.That person is a very base being; he must be; he would degrade himself for money, otherwise it would not occur to him that you would do such a thing.But all the same, that application has done its work, and taken you down in your own estimation.You recognize that everybody hasn't as high an opinion of you as you have of yourself; and in spite of you there ensues an interval during which you are not, in your own estimation as fine a bird as you were before.
However, being old and experienced, you do not mail your sharp letter, but leave it lying a day.That saves you.For by that time you have begun to reflect that you are a person who deals in exaggerations--and exaggerations are lies.You meant yours to be playful, and thought you made them unmistakably so.But you couldn't make them playfulnesses to a man who has no sense of the playful and can see nothing but the serious side of things.You rattle on quite playfully, and with measureless extravagance, about how you wept at the tomb of Adam; and all in good time you find to your astonishment that no end of people took you at your word and believed you.And presently they find out that you were not in earnest.They have been deceived; therefore, (as they argue--and there is a sort of argument in it,) you are a deceiver.If you will deceive in one way, why shouldn't you in another? So they apply for the use of your trade-mark.You are amazed and affronted.You retort that you are not that kind of person.Then they are amazed and affronted; and wonder "since when?"By this time you have got your bearings.You realize that perhaps there is a little blame on both sides.You are in the right frame, now.So you write a letter void of offense, declining.You mail this one; you pigeon-hole the other.
That is, being old and experienced, you do, but early in your career, you don't: you mail the first one.
II
An enthusiast who had a new system of musical notation, wrote to me and suggested that a magazine article from me, contrasting the absurdities of the old system with the simplicities of his new one, would be sure to make a "rousing hit." He shouted and shouted over the marvels wrought by his system, and quoted the handsome compliments which had been paid it by famous musical people; but he forgot to tell me what his notation was like, or what its simplicities consisted in.So I could not have written the article if I had wanted to--which I didn't; because I hate strangers with axes to grind.I wrote him a courteous note explaining how busy Iwas--I always explain how busy I am--and casually drooped this remark:
"I judge the X-X notation to be a rational mode of representing music, in place of the prevailing fashion, which was the invention of an idiot."Next mail he asked permission to print that meaningless remark.
I answered, no--courteously, but still, no; explaining that I could not afford to be placed in the attitude of trying to influence people with a mere worthless guess.What a scorcher I got, next mail! Such irony!
such sarca**, such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to the public! And withal, such compassion for my stupidity, too, in not being able to understand my own language.I cannot remember the words of this letter broadside, but there was about a page used up in turning this idea round and round and exposing it in different lights.
Unmailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--What is the trouble with you? If it is your viscera, you cannot have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon.I mean, if they are inside.But if you are composed of them, that is another matter.Is it your brain? But it could not be your brain.Possibly it is your skull: you want to look out for that.Some people, when they get an idea, it pries the structure apart.Your system of notation has got in there, and couldn't find room, without a doubt that is what the trouble is.Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made to throw potatoes at.
Yours Truly.
Mailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--Come, come--take a walk; you disturb the children.
Yours Truly.
There was a day, now happily nearly over, when certain newspapers made a practice of inviting men distinguished in any walk of life to give their time and effort without charge to express themselves on some subject of the day, or perhaps they were asked to send their favorite passages in prose or verse, with the reasons why.Such symposiums were "features"that cost the newspapers only the writing of a number of letters, stationery, and postage.To one such invitation Mark Twain wrote two replies.They follow herewith:
Unmailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--I have received your proposition--which you have imitated from a pauper London periodical which had previously imitated the idea of this sort of mendicancy from seventh-rate American journalism, where it originated as a variation of the inexpensive "interview."Why do you buy Associated Press dispatches? To make your paper the more salable, you answer.But why don't you try to beg them? Why do you discriminate? I can sell my stuff; why should I give it to you? Why don't you ask me for a shirt? What is the difference between asking me for the worth of a shirt and asking me for the shirt itself? Perhaps you didn't know you were begging.I would not use that argument--it makes the user a fool.The passage of poetry--or prose, if you will--which has taken deepest root in my thought, and which I oftenest return to and dwell upon with keenest no matter what, is this: That the proper place for journalists who solicit literary charity is on the street corner with their hats in their hands.
Mailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--Your favor of recent date is received, but I am obliged by press of work to decline.
