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Captain Stormfield’s Visit To Heaven by Mark Twain

ways of counting and measuring and ciphering wouldn’t ever give us

an idea of them, but would only confuse us and oppress us and make

our heads ache.”

After some more talk about this, I says: “Sandy, I notice that I

hardly ever see a white angel; where I run across one white angel,

I strike as many as a hundred million copper-colored ones – people

that can’t speak English. How is that?”

“Well, you will find it the same in any State or Territory of the

American corner of heaven you choose to go to. I have shot along,

a whole week on a stretch, and gone millions and millions of miles,

through perfect swarms of angels, without ever seeing a single

white one, or hearing a word I could understand. You see, America

was occupied a billion years and more, by Injuns and Aztecs, and

that sort of folks, before a white man ever set his foot in it.

During the first three hundred years after Columbus’s discovery,

there wasn’t ever more than one good lecture audience of white

people, all put together, in America – I mean the whole thing,

British Possessions and all; in the beginning of our century there

were only 6,000,000 or 7,000,000 – say seven; 12,000,000 or

14,000,000 in 1825; say 23,000,000 in 1850; 40,000,000 in 1875.

Our death-rate has always been 20 in 1000 per annum. Well, 140,000

died the first year of the century; 280,000 the twenty-fifth year;

500,000 the fiftieth year; about a million the seventy-fifth year.

Now I am going to be liberal about this thing, and consider that

fifty million whites have died in America from the beginning up to

to-day – make it sixty, if you want to; make it a hundred million –

it’s no difference about a few millions one way or t’other. Well,

now, you can see, yourself, that when you come to spread a little

dab of people like that over these hundreds of billions of miles of

American territory here in heaven, it is like scattering a ten-cent

box of homoeopathic pills over the Great Sahara and expecting to

find them again. You can’t expect us to amount to anything in

heaven, and we DON’T – now that is the simple fact, and we have got

to do the best we can with it. The learned men from other planets

and other systems come here and hang around a while, when they are

touring around the Kingdom, and then go back to their own section

of heaven and write a book of travels, and they give America about

five lines in it. And what do they say about us? They say this

wilderness is populated with a scattering few hundred thousand

billions of red angels, with now and then a curiously complected

DISEASED one. You see, they think we whites and the occasional

nigger are Injuns that have been bleached out or blackened by some

leprous disease or other – for some peculiarly rascally SIN, mind

you. It is a mighty sour pill for us all, my friend – even the

modestest of us, let alone the other kind, that think they are

going to be received like a long-lost government bond, and hug

Abraham into the bargain. I haven’t asked you any of the

particulars, Captain, but I judge it goes without saying – if my

experience is worth anything – that there wasn’t much of a hooraw

made over you when you arrived – now was there?”

“Don’t mention it, Sandy,” says I, coloring up a little; “I

wouldn’t have had the family see it for any amount you are a mind

to name. Change the subject, Sandy, change the subject.”

“Well, do you think of settling in the California department of

bliss?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t calculating on doing anything really

definite in that direction till the family come. I thought I would

just look around, meantime, in a quiet way, and make up my mind.

Besides, I know a good many dead people, and I was calculating to

hunt them up and swap a little gossip with them about friends, and

old times, and one thing or another, and ask them how they like it

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Categories: Twain, Mark
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