I do not believe in special providences. I believe that the universe is governed by strict and immutable laws: If one man"s family is swept away by a pestilence and another man"s spared it is only the law working: G.o.d is not interfering in that small matter, either against the one man or in favor of the other.
I cannot see how eternal punishment hereafter could accomplish any good end, therefore I am not able to believe in it. To chasten a man in order to perfect him might be reasonable enough; to annihilate him when he shall have proved himself incapable of reaching perfection might be reasonable enough; but to roast him forever for the mere satisfaction of seeing him roast would not be reasonable--even the atrocious G.o.d imagined by the Jews would tire of the spectacle eventually.
There may be a hereafter and there may not be. I am wholly indifferent about it. If I am appointed to live again I feel sure it will be for some more sane and useful purpose than to flounder about for ages in a lake of fire and brimstone for having violated a confusion of ill-defined and contradictory rules said (but not evidenced) to be of divine inst.i.tution. If annihilation is to follow death I shall not be aware of the annihilation, and therefore shall not care a straw about it.
I believe that the world"s moral laws are the outcome of the world"s experience. It needed no G.o.d to come down out of heaven to tell men that murder and theft and the other immoralities were bad, both for the individual who commits them and for society which suffers from them.
If I break all these moral laws I cannot see how I injure G.o.d by it, for He is beyond the reach of injury from me--I could as easily injure a planet by throwing mud at it. It seems to me that my misconduct could only injure me and other men. I cannot benefit G.o.d by obeying these moral laws--I could as easily benefit the planet by withholding my mud. (Let these sentences be read in the light of the fact that I believe I have received moral laws only from man --none whatever from G.o.d.) Consequently I do not see why I should be either punished or rewarded hereafter for the deeds I do here.
If the tragedies of life shook his faith in the goodness and justice and the mercy of G.o.d as manifested toward himself, he at any rate never questioned that the wider scheme of the universe was attuned to the immutable law which contemplates nothing less than absolute harmony.
I never knew him to refer to this particular doc.u.ment; but he never destroyed it and never amended it, nor is it likely that he would have done either had it been presented to him for consideration even during the last year of his life.
He was never intentionally dogmatic. In a memorandum on a fly-leaf of Moncure D. Conway"s Sacred Anthology he wrote:
RELIGION
The easy confidence with which I know another man"s religion is folly teaches me to suspect that my own is also.
MARK TWAIN, 19th Cent. A.D.
And in another note:
I would not interfere with any one"s religion, either to strengthen it or to weaken it. I am not able to believe one"s religion can affect his hereafter one way or the other, no matter what that religion maybe.
But it may easily be a great comfort to him in this life hence it is a valuable possession to him.
Mark Twain"s religion was a faith too wide for doctrines--a benevolence too limitless for creeds. From the beginning he strove against oppression, sham, and evil in every form. He despised meanness; he resented with every drop of blood in him anything that savored of persecution or a curtailment of human liberties. It was a religion identified with his daily life and his work. He lived as he wrote, and he wrote as he believed. His favorite weapon was humor--good-humor--with logic behind it. A sort of glorified truth it was truth wearing a smile of gentleness, hence all the more quickly heeded.
"He will be remembered with the great humorists of all time," says Howells, "with Cervantes, with Swift, or with any others worthy of his company; none of them was his equal in humanity."
Mark Twain understood the needs of men because he was himself supremely human. In one of his dictations he said:
I have found that there is no ingredient of the race which I do not possess in either a small or a large way. When it is small, as compared with the same ingredient in somebody else, there is still enough of it for all the purposes of examination.
With his strength he had inherited the weaknesses of our kind. With him, as with another, a myriad of dreams and schemes and purposes daily flitted by. With him, as with another, the spirit of desire led him often to a high mountain-top, and was not rudely put aside, but lingeringly--and often invited to return. With him, as with another, a crowd of jealousies and resentments, and wishes for the ill of others, daily went seething and scorching along the highways of the soul. With him, as with another, regret, remorse, and shame stood at the bedside during long watches of the night; and in the end, with him, the better thing triumphed--forgiveness and generosity and justice--in a word, Humanity. Certain of his aphorisms and memoranda each in itself const.i.tutes an epitome of Mark Twain"s creed. His paraphrase, "When in doubt tell the truth," is one of these, and he embodied his whole att.i.tude toward Infinity when in one of his stray pencilings he wrote:
Why, even poor little unG.o.dlike man holds himself responsible for the welfare of his child to the extent of his ability. It is all that we require of G.o.d.
CCXCVI. POSTSCRIPT
Every life is a drama--a play in all its particulars; comedy, farce, tragedy--all the elements are there. To examine in detail any life, however conspicuous or obscure, is to become amazed not only at the inevitable sequence of events, but at the interlinking of details, often far removed, into a marvelously intricate pattern which no art can hope to reproduce, and can only feebly imitate.
The biographer may reconstruct an episode, present a picture, or reflect a mood by which the reader is enabled to feel something of the glow of personality and know, perhaps, a little of the substance of the past.
In so far as the historian can accomplish this his work is a success. At best his labor will be pathetically incomplete, for whatever its detail and its resemblance to life, these will record mainly but an outward expression, behind which was the mighty sweep and tumult of unwritten thought, the overwhelming proportion of any life, which no other human soul can ever really know.
Mark Twain"s appearance on the stage of the world was a succession of dramatic moments. He was always exactly in the setting. Whatever he did, or whatever came to him, was timed for the instant of greatest effect.
At the end he was more widely observed and loved and honored than ever before, and at the right moment and in the right manner he died.
How little one may tell of such a life as his! He traveled always such a broad and brilliant highway, with plumes flying and crowds following after. Such a whirling panorama of life, and death, and change! I have written so much, and yet I have put so much aside--and often the best things, it seemed afterward, perhaps because each in its way was best and the variety infinite. One may only strive to be faithful--and I would have made it better if I could.
APPENDIX.
APPENDIX A
LETTER FROM ORION CLEMENS TO MISS WOOD CONCERNING HENRY CLEMENS
(See Chapter xxvi)
KEOKUK, Iowa, October 3, 1858.
MISS WOOD,--My mother having sent me your kind letter, with a request that myself and wife should write to you, I hasten to do so.
In my memory I can go away back to Henry"s infancy; I see his large, blue eyes intently regarding my father when he rebuked him for his credulity in giving full faith to the boyish idea of planting his marbles, expecting a crop therefrom; then comes back the recollection of the time when, standing we three alone by our father"s grave, I told them always to remember that brothers should be kind to each other; afterward I see Henry returning from school with his books for the last time. He must go into my printing-office. He learned rapidly. A word of encouragement or a word of discouragement told upon his organization electrically. I could see the effects in his day"s work. Sometimes I would say, "Henry!" He would stand full front with his eyes upon mine--all attention. If I commanded him to do something, without a word he was off instantly, probably in a run. If a cat was to be drowned or shot Sam (though unwilling yet firm) was selected for the work. If a stray kitten was to be fed and taken care of Henry was expected to attend to it, and he would faithfully do so. So they grew up, and many was the grave lecture commenced by ma, to the effect that Sam was misleading and spoiling Henry. But the lectures were never concluded, for Sam would reply with a witticism, or dry, unexpected humor, that would drive the lecture clean out of my mother"s mind, and change it to a laugh. Those were happier days. My mother was as lively as any girl of sixteen. She is not so now. And sister Pamela I have described in describing Henry; for she was his counterpart. The blow falls crushingly on her. But the boys grew up--Sam a rugged, brave, quick-tempered, generous-hearted fellow, Henry quiet, observing, thoughtful, leaning on Sam for protection; Sam and I too leaning on him for knowledge picked up from conversation or books, for Henry seemed never to forget anything, and devoted much of his leisure hours to reading.
Henry is gone! His death was horrible! How I could have sat by him, hung over him, watched day and night every change of expression, and ministered to every want in my power that I could discover. This was denied to me, but Sam, whose organization is such as to feel the utmost extreme of every feeling, was there. Both his capacity of enjoyment and his capacity of suffering are greater than mine; and knowing how it would have affected me to see so sad a scene, I can somewhat appreciate Sam"s sufferings. In this time of great trouble, when my two brothers, whose heartstrings have always been a part of my own, were suffering the utmost stretch of mortal endurance, you were there, like a good angel, to aid and console, and I bless and thank you for it with my whole heart. I thank all who helped them then; I thank them for the flowers they sent to Henry, for the tears that fell for their sufferings, and when he died, and all of them for all the kind attentions they bestowed upon the poor boys. We thank the physicians, and we shall always gratefully remember the kindness of the gentleman who at so much expense to himself enabled us to deposit Henry"s remains by our father.
With many kind wishes for your future welfare, I remain your earnest friend,
Respectfully, ORION CLEMENS.
APPENDIX B
MARK TWAIN"S BURLESQUE OF CAPTAIN ISAIAH SELLERS
(See Chapter xxvii)
The item which served as a text for the "Sergeant Fathom" communication was as follows:
VICKSBURG, May 4, 1859.
My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of New Orleans: The water is higher this far up than it has been since 1815. My opinion is that the water will be four feet deep in Ca.n.a.l Street before the first of next June. Mrs. Turner"s plantation at the head of Big Black Island is all under water, and it has not been since 1815. I. SELLERS.--[Captain Sellers, as in this case, sometimes signed his own name to his communications.]
THE BURLESQUE INTRODUCTORY
Our friend Sergeant Fathom, one of the oldest cub pilots on the river, and now on the Railroad Line steamer Trombone, sends us a rather bad account concerning the state of the river. Sergeant Fathom is a "cub"
of much experience, and although we are loath to coincide in his view of the matter, we give his note a place in our columns, only hoping that his prophecy will not be verified in this instance. While introducing the Sergeant, "we consider it but simple justice (we quote from a friend of his) to remark that he is distinguished for being, in pilot phrase, "close," as well as superhumanly "safe."" It is a well-known fact that he has made fourteen hundred and fifty trips in the New Orleans and St. Louis trade without causing serious damage to a steamboat. This astonishing success is attributed to the fact that he seldom runs his boat after early candle-light. It is related of the Sergeant that upon one occasion he actually ran the chute of Gla.s.sc.o.c.k"s Island, down-stream, in the night, and at a time, too, when the river was scarcely more than bank full. His method of accomplishing this feat proves what we have just said of his "safeness"--he sounded the chute first, and then built a fire at the head of the island to run by. As to the Sergeant"s "closeness," we have heard it whispered that he once went up to the right of the "Old Hen,"--[Gla.s.sc.o.c.k"s Island and the "Old Hen" were phenomenally safe places.]--but this is probably a pardonable little exaggeration, prompted by the love and admiration in which he is held by various ancient dames of his acquaintance (for albeit the Sergeant may have already numbered the allotted years of man, still his form is erect, his step is firm, his hair retains its sable hue, and, more than all, he hath a winning way about him, an air of docility and sweetness, if you will, and a smoothness of speech, together with an exhaustless fund of funny sayings; and, lastly, an overflowing stream, without beginning, or middle, or end, of astonishing reminiscences of the ancient Mississippi, which, taken together, form a "tout ensemble"
which is sufficient excuse for the tender epithet which is, by common consent, applied to him by all those ancient dames aforesaid, of "che-arming creature!"). As the Sergeant has been longer on the river, and is better acquainted with it than any other "cub" extant, his remarks are ent.i.tled to far more consideration, and are always read with the deepest interest by high and low, rich and poor, from "Kiho" to Kamschatka, for let it be known that his fame extends to the uttermost parts of the earth: