The Canvasser's Tale by Mark Twain
Poor, sad-eyed stranger! There was that about his humble mien, his
tired look, his decayed-gentility clothes, that almost reached the
mustard, seed of charity that still remained, remote and lonely, in
the empty vastness of my heart, notwithstanding I observed a portfolio
under his arm, and said to myself, Behold, Providence hath delivered
his servant into the hands of another canvasser.
Well, these people always get one interested. Before I well knew
how it came about, this one was telling me his history, and I was all
attention and sympathy. He told it something like this:
My parents died, alas, when I was a little, sinless child. My
uncle Ithuriel took me to his heart and reared me as his own. He was
my only relative in the wide world; but he was good and rich and
generous. He reared me in the lap of luxury. I knew no want that
money could satisfy.
In the fullness of time I was graduated, and went with two of my
servants--my chamberlain and my valet--to travel in foreign countries.
During four years I flitted upon careless wing amid the beauteous
gardens of the distant strand, if you will permit this form of speech
in one whose tongue was ever attuned to poesy; and indeed I so speak
with confidence, as one unto his kind, for I perceive by your eyes
that you too, sir, are gifted with the divine inflation. In those far
lands I reveled in the ambrosial food that fructifies the soul, the
mind, the heart. But of all things, that which most appealed to my
inborn esthetic taste was the prevailing custom there, among the rich,
of making collections of elegant and costly rarities, dainty objets de
vertu, and in an evil hour I tried to uplift my uncle Ithuriel to a
plane of sympathy with this exquisite employment.
I wrote and told him of one gentleman's vast collection of shells;
another's noble collection of meerschaum pipes; another's elevating
and refining collection of undecipherable autographs; another's
priceless collection of old china; another's enchanting collection of
postage- stamps--and so forth and so on. Soon my letters yielded
fruit. My uncle began to look about for something to make a
collection of. You may know, perhaps, how fleetly a taste like this
dilates. His soon became a raging fever, though I knew it not. He
began to neglect his great pork business; presently he wholly retired
and turned an elegant leisure into a rabid search for curious things.
His wealth was vast, and he spared it not. First he tried cow-bells.
He made a collection which filled five large salons, and comprehended
all the different sorts of cow-bells that ever had been contrived,
save one. That one--an antique, and the only specimen extant--was
possessed by another collector. My uncle offered enormous sums for
it, but the gentleman would not sell. Doubtless you know what
necessarily resulted. A true collector attaches no value to a
collection that is not complete. His great heart breaks, he sells his
hoard, he turns his mind to some field that seems unoccupied.
Thus did my uncle. He next tried brickbats. After piling up a
vast and intensely interesting collection, the former difficulty
supervened; his great heart broke again; he sold out his soul's idol
to the retired brewer who possessed the missing brick. Then he tried
flint hatchets and other implements of Primeval Man, but by and by
discovered that the factory where they were made was supplying other
collectors as well as himself. He tried Aztec inscriptions and
stuffed whales--another failure, after incredible labor and expense.
When his collection seemed at last perfect, a stuffed whale arrived
from Greenland and an Aztec inscription from the Cundurango regions of
Central America that made all former specimens insignificant. My
uncle hastened to secure these noble gems. He got the stuffed whale,
but another collector got the inscription. A real Cundurango, as
possibly you know, is a possession of such supreme value that, when
once a collector gets it, he will rather part with his family than
with it. So my uncle sold out, and saw his darlings go forth, never
more to return; and his coal-black hair turned white as snow in a
Now he waited, and thought. He knew another disappointment might
kill him. He was resolved that he would choose things next time that
no other man was collecting. He carefully made up his mind, and once
more entered the field-this time to make a collection of echoes.
"Of what?" said I.
Echoes, sir. His first purchase was an echo in Georgia that
repeated four times; his next was a six-repeater in Maryland; his next
was a thirteen-repeater in Maine; his next was a nine-repeater in
Kansas; his next was a twelve-repeater in Tennessee, which he got
cheap, so to speak, because it was out of repair, a portion of the
crag which reflected it having tumbled down. He believed he could
repair it at a cost of a few thousand dollars, and, by increasing the
elevation with masonry, treble the repeating capacity; but the
architect who undertook the job had never built an echo before, and so
he utterly spoiled this one. Before he meddled with it, it used to
talk back like a mother-in-law, but now it was only fit for the
deaf-and-dumb asylum. Well, next he bought a lot of cheap little
double-barreled echoes, scattered around over various states and
territories; he got them at twenty per cent. off by taking the lot.
Next he bought a perfect Gatling-gun of an echo in Oregon, and it cost
a fortune, I can tell you. You may know, sir, that in the echo market
the scale of prices is cumulative, like the carat-scale in diamonds;
in fact, the same phraseology is used. A single-carat echo is worth
but ten dollars over and above the value of the land it is on; a
two-carat or double-barreled echo is worth thirty dollars; a
five-carat is worth nine hundred and fifty; a ten-carat is worth
thirteen thousand. My uncle's Oregon-echo, which he called the Great
Pitt Echo, was a twenty-two carat gem, and cost two hundred and
sixteen thousand dollars--they threw the land in, for it was four
hundred miles from a settlement.
Well, in the mean time my path was a path of roses. I was the
accepted suitor of the only and lovely daughter of an English earl,
and was beloved to distraction. In that dear presence I swam in seas
of bliss. The family were content, for it was known that I was sole
heir to an uncle held to be worth five millions of dollars. However,
none of us knew that my uncle had become a collector, at least in
anything more than a small way, for esthetic amusement.
Now gathered the clouds above my unconscious head. That divine
echo, since known throughout the world as the Great Koh-i-noor, or
Mountain of Repetitions, was discovered. It was a sixty-five carat
gem. You could utter a word and it would talk back at you for fifteen
minutes, when the day was otherwise quiet. But behold, another fact
came to light at the same time: another echo-collector was in the
field. The two rushed to make the peerless purchase. The property
consisted of a couple of small hills with a shallow swale between, out
yonder among the back settlements of New York State. Both men arrived
on the ground at the same time, and neither knew the other was there.
The echo was not all owned by one man; a person by the name of
Williamson Bolivar Jarvis owned the east hill, and a person by the
name of Harbison J. Bledso owned the west hill; the swale between was
the dividing-line. So while my uncle was buying Jarvis's hill for
three million two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars, the other
party was buying Bledso's hill for a shade over three million.
Now, do you perceive the natural result? Why, the noblest
collection of echoes on earth was forever and ever incomplete, since
it possessed but the one-half of the king echo of the universe.
Neither man was content with this divided ownership, yet neither
would sell to the other. There were jawings, bickerings,
heart-burnings. And at last that other collector, with a malignity
which only a collector can ever feel toward a man and a brother,
proceeded to cut down his hill!
You see, as long as he could not have the echo, he was resolved
that nobody should have it. He would remove his hill, and then there
would be nothing to reflect my uncle's echo. My uncle remonstrated
with him, but the man said, "I own one end of this echo; I choose to
kill my end; you must take care of your own end yourself."
Well, my uncle got an injunction put an him. The other man
appealed and fought it in a higher court. They carried it on up,
clear to the Supreme Court of the United States. It made no end of
trouble there. Two of the judges believed that an echo was personal
property, because it was impalpable to sight and touch, and yet was
purchasable, salable, and consequently taxable; two others believed
that an echo was real estate, because it was manifestly attached to
the land, and was not removable from place to place; other of the
judges contended that an echo was not property at all.
It was finally decided that the echo was property; that the hills
were property; that the two men were separate and independent owners
of the two hills, but tenants in common in the echo; therefore
defendant was at full liberty to cut down his hill, since it belonged
solely to him, but must give bonds in three million dollars as
indemnity for damages which might result to my uncle's half of the
echo. This decision also debarred my uncle from using defendant's
hill to reflect his part of the echo, without defendant's consent; he
must use only his own hill; if his part of the echo would not go,
under these circumstances, it was sad, of course, but the court could
find no remedy. The court also debarred defendant from using my
uncle's hill to reflect his end of the echo, without consent. You see
the grand result! Neither man would give consent, and so that
astonishing and most noble echo had to cease from its great powers;
and since that day that magnificent property is tied up and unsalable.
A week before my wedding-day, while I was still swimming in bliss
and the nobility were gathering from far and near to honor our
espousals, came news of my uncle's death, and also a copy of his will,
making me his sole heir. He was gone; alas, my dear benefactor was no
more. The thought surcharges my heart even at this remote day. I
handed the will to the earl; I could not read it for the blinding
tears. The earl read it; then he sternly said, "Sir, do you call this
wealth?--but doubtless you do in your inflated country. Sir, you are
left sole heir to a vast collection of echoes--if a thing can be
called a collection that is scattered far and wide over the huge
length and breadth of the American continent; sir, this is not all;
you are head and ears in debt; there is not an echo in the lot but has
a mortgage on it; sir, I am not a hard man, but I must look to my
child's interest; if you had but one echo which you could honestly
call your own, if you had but one echo which was free from
incumbrance, so that you could retire to it with my child, and by
humble, painstaking industry cultivate and improve it, and thus wrest
from it a maintenance, I would not say you nay; but I cannot marry my
child to a beggar. Leave his side, my darling; go, sir, take your
mortgage-ridden echoes and quit my sight forever."
My noble Celestine clung to me in tears, with loving arms, and
swore she would willingly, nay gladly, marry me, though I had not an
echo in the world. But it could not be. We were torn asunder, she to
pine and die within the twelvemonth, I to toil life's long journey sad
and alone, praying daily, hourly, for that release which shall join us
together again in that dear realm where the wicked cease from
troubling and the weary are at rest. Now, sir, if you will be so kind
as to look at these maps and plans in my portfolio, I am sure I can
sell you an echo for less money than any man in the trade. Now this
one, which cost my uncle ten dollars, thirty years ago, and is one of
the sweetest things in Texas, I will let you have for--
"Let me interrupt you," I said. "My friend, I have not had a
moment's respite from canvassers this day. I have bought a
sewing-machine which I did not want; I have bought a map which is
mistaken in all its details; I have bought a clock which will not go;
I have bought a moth poison which the moths prefer to any other
beverage; I have bought no end of useless inventions, and now I have
had enough of this foolishness. I would not have one of your echoes if
you were even to give it to me. I would not let it stay on the place.
I always hate a man that tries to sell me echoes. You see this gun?
Now take your collection and move on; let us not have bloodshed."
But he only smiled a sad, sweet smile, and got out some more
diagrams. You know the result perfectly well, because you know that
when you have once opened the door to a canvasser, the trouble is done
and you have got to suffer defeat.
I compromised with this man at the end of an intolerable hour. I
bought two double-barreled echoes in good condition, and he threw in
another, which he said was not salable because it only spoke German.
He said, "She was a perfect polyglot once, but somehow her palate got