Roughing It by Mark Twain

possibilities; he said he got the incident of the whale traveling from

Behring’s Strait to the coast of Greenland, five thousand miles in five

days, through the Arctic Ocean, from Charles Reade’s “Love Me Little Love

Me Long,” and considered that that established the fact that the thing

could be done; and he instanced Jonah’s adventure as proof that a man

could live in a whale’s belly, and added that if a preacher could stand

it three days a lawyer could surely stand it five!

There was a fiercer storm than ever in the editorial sanctum now, and the

stranger was peremptorily discharged, and his manuscript flung at his

head. But he had already delayed things so much that there was not time

for some one else to rewrite the chapter, and so the paper came out

without any novel in it. It was but a feeble, struggling, stupid

journal, and the absence of the novel probably shook public confidence;

at any rate, before the first side of the next issue went to press, the

Weekly Occidental died as peacefully as an infant.

An effort was made to resurrect it, with the proposed advantage of a

telling new title, and Mr. F. said that The Phenix would be just the name

for it, because it would give the idea of a resurrection from its dead

ashes in a new and undreamed of condition of splendor; but some low-

priced smarty on one of the dailies suggested that we call it the

Lazarus; and inasmuch as the people were not profound in Scriptural

matters but thought the resurrected Lazarus and the dilapidated mendicant

that begged in the rich man’s gateway were one and the same person, the

name became the laughing stock of the town, and killed the paper for good

and all.

I was sorry enough, for I was very proud of being connected with a

literary paper–prouder than I have ever been of anything since, perhaps.

I had written some rhymes for it–poetry I considered it–and it was a

great grief to me that the production was on the “first side” of the

issue that was not completed, and hence did not see the light. But time

brings its revenges–I can put it in here; it will answer in place of a

tear dropped to the memory of the lost Occidental. The idea (not the

chief idea, but the vehicle that bears it) was probably suggested by the

old song called “The Raging Canal,” but I cannot remember now. I do

remember, though, that at that time I thought my doggerel was one of the

ablest poems of the age:

THE AGED PILOT MAN.

On the Erie Canal, it was,

All on a summer’s day,

I sailed forth with my parents

Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day

There came a dreadful storm,

That piled the billows high about,

And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house,

Saying, “Snub up your boat I pray,

[The customary canal technicality for “tie up.”]

Snub up your boat, snub up, alas,

Snub up while yet you may.”

Our captain cast one glance astern,

Then forward glanced he,

And said, “My wife and little ones

I never more shall see.”

Said Dollinger the pilot man,

In noble words, but few,–

“Fear not, but lean on Dollinger,

And he will fetch you through.”

The boat drove on, the frightened mules

Tore through the rain and wind,

And bravely still, in danger’s post,

The whip-boy strode behind.

“Come ‘board, come ‘board,” the captain cried,

“Nor tempt so wild a storm;”

But still the raging mules advanced,

And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all,

“Alas, ’tis plain to me,

The greater danger is not there,

But here upon the sea.

So let us strive, while life remains,

To save all souls on board,

And then if die at last we must,

Let . . . . I cannot speak the word!”

Said Dollinger the pilot man,

Tow’ring above the crew,

“Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,

And he will fetch you through.”

“Low bridge! low bridge!” all heads went down,

The laboring bark sped on;