Mark Twain came to Iowa in January 1869 with a lecture about his travels abroad. Iowa had a few things to say about him, too. Depending on which newspaper you read, he was a fine entertainer, a humbug, or a loose collection of arms and legs that occasionally leaned against a desk.
The editor of the Iowa City Republican wasn’t buying the act. As the Muscatine Journal reported, he complained, “It was impossible to know when he was talking in earnest and when in burlesque.” He wouldn’t give “two cents to see him again.” Twain’s habit of leaving people unsure whether he was serious worked better on some customers than others.
The
next day, Twain gave the Clinton House a performance of its own. His room
didn’t have a bell-pull, the cord a guest could use to summon service. Twain
made up for the missing equipment by yelling at the top of his lungs. Whether
the Iowa City editor would have paid two cents for that performance is unknown,
but Twain seems to have cleared up any confusion about when he was talking in
earnest.
In
Davenport, his lecture at the Burris Opera House turned from hotel
accommodations to the wider world. The subject was The Vandal Abroad,
and the material included Columbus and an Egyptian mummy. One account
explained: “He gave a ludicrous history of Columbus and the Egyptian Mummy, to
which he was introduced at Rome and Genoa. He didn’t like the mummy, preferring
a fresh corpse.”
It was the sort of travel information audiences could expect from Twain. Other travelers might discuss ancient civilizations, magnificent ruins, or the lessons of history. Twain had an opinion about the freshness of the dead.
The Daily
Gate City reviewer was considerably happier with him than the Iowa
City editor had been, calling the performance an “intensely spicy lecture.”
Before getting to the verdict, he took a good look at the lecturer. Twain was
neither remarkably good nor remarkably bad looking. His eyes were deep-set
beneath curly black hair.
His
stage manners gave the reporter more to work with. “He hangs around loose,
leaning on the desk, or flirting round the corner of it.” Then he wandered
around, talking in a “monotonous drawl.” It wasn’t the performance one expected
from a professional lecturer. Twain sounded more like a man who had stopped by,
found a desk to lean on, and decided to stay awhile.
Another
paper, quoting the Chicago Tribune, supplied Twain’s measurements
for anyone still trying to picture him. Twain stood about five feet ten inches
tall and weighed 167 pounds. He was lithe and muscular, with a round head, a
considerable neck, and broad feet. His deep-set eyes “twinkled like stars in
the night.”
 |
| (Morning Democrat. January 11, 1869) |
For all the inspection, the drawl, and the wandering around the furniture, the Daily Gate City reviewer liked what he heard. His final verdict was straightforward: “It was a might good lecture.”
Iowa
hadn’t reached a unanimous decision on Mark Twain. One editor wanted his
evening back. Another thought the lecture was spicy. And somewhere at the
Clinton House Hotel, somebody had probably developed a new appreciation for
bell-pulls.
Sounds
like the start of another good book.
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