The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mark Twain's Letters — Volume 2 (1867-1875)
Title: Mark Twain's Letters — Volume 2 (1867-1875)
Author: Mark Twain
Compiler: Albert Bigelow Paine
Release date: September 18, 2004 [eBook #3194]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Widger
MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1867-1875
VOLUME II.
By Mark Twain
ARRANGED WITH COMMENTS
BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
Contents
To Bret Harte, in San Francisco:
DEAR BRET,—I take my pen in hand to inform you that I am well and hope these few lines will find you enjoying the same God's blessing.
The book is out, and is handsome. It is full of damnable errors of grammar and deadly inconsistencies of spelling in the Frog sketch because I was away and did not read the proofs; but be a friend and say nothing about these things. When my hurry is over, I will send you an autograph copy to pisen the children with.
I am to lecture in Cooper Institute next Monday night. Pray for me.
We sail for the Holy Land June 8. Try to write me (to this hotel,) and it will be forwarded to Paris, where we remain 10 or 15 days.
Regards and best wishes to Mrs. Bret and the family.
MARK.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—Don't expect me to write for a while. My hands are full of business on account of my lecture for the 6th inst., and everything looks shady, at least, if not dark. I have got a good agent—but now after we have hired Cooper Institute and gone to an expense in one way or another of $500, it comes out that I have got to play against Speaker Colfax at Irving Hall, Ristori, and also the double troupe of Japanese jugglers, the latter opening at the great Academy of Music—and with all this against me I have taken the largest house in New York and cannot back water. Let her slide! If nobody else cares I don't.
I'll send the book soon. I am awfully hurried now, but not worried.
SAM.
When it became evident to Fuller that the venture was not
going to pay, he sent out a flood of complimentaries to the
school-teachers of New York City and the surrounding
districts. No one seems to have declined them. Clemens
lectured to a jammed house and acquired much reputation.
Lecture proposals came from several directions, but he could
not accept them now. He wrote home that he was eighteen Alta
letters behind and had refused everything. Thos. Nast, the
cartoonist, then in his first fame, propped a joint tour,
Clemens to lecture while he, Nast, would illustrate with
“lightning” sketches; but even this could not be considered
now. In a little while he would sail, and the days were
overfull. A letter written a week before he sailed is full
of the hurry and strain of these last days.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—I know I ought to write oftener (just got your last,) and more fully, but I cannot overcome my repugnance to telling what I am doing or what I expect to do or propose to do. Then, what have I left to write about? Manifestly nothing.
It isn't any use for me to talk about the voyage, because I can have no faith in that voyage till the ship is under way. How do I know she will ever sail? My passage is paid, and if the ship sails, I sail in her—but I make no calculations, have bought no cigars, no sea-going clothing—have made no preparation whatever—shall not pack my trunk till the morning we sail. Yet my hands are full of what I am going to do the day before we sail—and what isn't done that day will go undone.
All I do know or feel, is, that I am wild with impatience to move—move—move! Half a dozen times I have wished I had sailed long ago in some ship that wasn't going to keep me chained here to chafe for lagging ages while she got ready to go. Curse the endless delays! They always kill me—they make me neglect every duty and then I have a conscience that tears me like a wild beast. I wish I never had to stop anywhere a month. I do more mean things, the moment I get a chance to fold my hands and sit down than ever I can get forgiveness for.
Yes, we are to meet at Mr. Beach's next Thursday night, and I suppose we shall have to be gotten up regardless of expense, in swallow-tails, white kids and everything en regle.
I am resigned to Rev. Mr. Hutchinson's or anybody else's supervision. I don't mind it. I am fixed. I have got a splendid, immoral, tobacco-smoking, wine-drinking, godless room-mate who is as good and true and right-minded a man as ever lived—a man whose blameless conduct and example will always be an eloquent sermon to all who shall come within their influence. But send on the professional preachers—there are none I like better to converse with. If they're not narrow minded and bigoted they make good companions.
I asked them to send the N. Y. Weekly to you—no charge. I am not going to write for it. Like all other, papers that pay one splendidly it circulates among stupid people and the 'canaille.' I have made no arrangement with any New York paper—I will see about that Monday or Tuesday.
Good bye,
Yrs affy
SAM.
example” was Dan Slote, immortalized in the Innocents as “Dan”
—a favorite on the ship, and later beloved by countless readers.
There is one more letter, written the night before the Quaker City
sailed-a letter which in a sense marks the close of the first great
period of his life—the period of aimless wandering—adventure
—youth.
Perhaps a paragraph of explanation should precede this letter.
Political changes had eliminated Orion in Nevada, and he was now
undertaking the practice of law. “Bill Stewart” was Senator
Stewart, of Nevada, of whom we shall hear again. The “Sandwich
Island book,” as may be imagined, was made up of his letters to the
Sacramento Union. Nothing came of the venture, except some chapters
in 'Roughing It', rewritten from the material. “Zeb and John
Leavenworth” were pilots whom he had known on the river.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS, I suppose we shall be many a league at sea tomorrow night, and goodness knows I shall be unspeakably glad of it.
I haven't got anything to write, else I would write it. I have just written myself clear out in letters to the Alta, and I think they are the stupidest letters that were ever written from New York. Corresponding has been a perfect drag ever since I got to the states. If it continues abroad, I don't know what the Tribune and Alta folks will think. I have withdrawn the Sandwich Island book—it would be useless to publish it in these dull publishing times. As for the Frog book, I don't believe that will ever pay anything worth a cent. I published it simply to advertise myself—not with the hope of making anything out of it.
Well, I haven't anything to write, except that I am tired of staying in one place—that I am in a fever to get away. Read my Alta letters—they contain everything I could possibly write to you. Tell Zeb and John Leavenworth to write me. They can get plenty of gossip from the pilots.
An importing house sent two cases of exquisite champagne aboard the ship for me today—Veuve Clicquot and Lac d'Or. I and my room-mate have set apart every Saturday as a solemn fast day, wherein we will entertain no light matters of frivolous conversation, but only get drunk. (That is a joke.) His mother and sisters are the best and most homelike people I have yet found in a brown stone front. There is no style about them, except in house and furniture.
I wish Orion were going on this voyage, for I believe he could not help but be cheerful and jolly. I often wonder if his law business is going satisfactorily to him, but knowing that the dull season is setting in now (it looked like it had already set in before) I have felt as if I could almost answer the question myself—which is to say in plain words, I was afraid to ask. I wish I had gone to Washington in the winter instead of going West. I could have gouged an office out of Bill Stewart for him, and that would atone for the loss of my home visit. But I am so worthless that it seems to me I never do anything or accomplish anything that lingers in my mind as a pleasant memory. My mind is stored full of unworthy conduct toward Orion and towards you all, and an accusing conscience gives me peace only in excitement and restless moving from place to place. If I could say I had done one thing for any of you that entitled me to your good opinion, (I say nothing of your love, for I am sure of that, no matter how unworthy of it I may make myself, from Orion down you have always given me that, all the days of my life, when God Almighty knows I seldom deserve it,) I believe I could go home and stay there and I know I would care little for the world's praise or blame. There is no satisfaction in the world's praise anyhow, and it has no worth to me save in the way of business. I tried to gather up its compliments to send to you, but the work was distasteful and I dropped it.
You observe that under a cheerful exterior I have got a spirit that is angry with me and gives me freely its contempt. I can get away from that at sea, and be tranquil and satisfied—and so, with my parting love and benediction for Orion and all of you, I say goodbye and God bless you all—and welcome the wind that wafts a weary soul to the sunny lands of the Mediterranean!
SAM.
VII. LETTERS 1867. THE TRAVELER. THE VOYAGE OF THE “QUAKER CITY”
personal letters, but those unique descriptive relations of
travel which would make him his first great fame—those
fresh first impressions preserved to us now as chapters of
The Innocents Abroad. Yet here and there in the midst of
sight-seeing and reporting he found time to send a brief
line to those at home, merely that they might have a word
from his own hand, for he had ordered the papers to which he
was to contribute—the Alta and the New York Tribune—sent
to them, and these would give the story of his travels. The
home letters read like notebook entries.
Letters to Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—We are having a lively time here, after a stormy trip. We meant to go to San Miguel, but were driven here by stress of weather. Beautiful climate.
Affect.
SAM.
DEAR FOLKS,—Arrived here this morning, and am clear worn out with riding and climbing in and over and around this monstrous rock and its fortifications. Summer climate and very pleasant.
SAM.
DEAR FOLKS, Half a dozen of us came here yesterday from Gibraltar and some of the company took the other direction; went up through Spain, to Paris by rail. We decided that Gibraltar and San Roque were all of Spain that we wanted to see at present and are glad we came here among the Africans, Moors, Arabs and Bedouins of the desert. I would not give this experience for all the balance of the trip combined. This is the infernalest hive of infernally costumed barbarians I have ever come across yet.
SAM.
DR. FOLKS,—We are far up the intensely blue and ravishingly beautiful Mediterranean. And now we are just passing the island of Minorca. The climate is perfectly lovely and it is hard to drive anybody to bed, day or night. We remain up the whole night through occasionally, and by this means enjoy the rare sensation of seeing the sun rise. But the sunsets are soft, rich, warm and superb!
We had a ball last night under the awnings of the quarter deck, and the share of it of three of us was masquerade. We had full, flowing, picturesque Moorish costumes which we purchased in the bazaars of Tangier.
SAM.
We are here. Start for Paris tomorrow. All well. Had gorgeous 4th of July jollification yesterday at sea.
SAM.
by following the chapters in The Innocents Abroad, which is very
good history, less elaborated than might be supposed. But on the
other hand, the next letter adds something of interest to the
book-circumstances which a modest author would necessarily omit.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—We have been representing the United States all we knew how today. We went to Sebastopol, after we got tired of Constantinople (got your letter there, and one at Naples,) and there the Commandant and the whole town came aboard and were as jolly and sociable as old friends. They said the Emperor of Russia was at Yalta, 30 miles or 40 away, and urged us to go there with the ship and visit him—promised us a cordial welcome. They insisted on sending a telegram to the Emperor, and also a courier overland to announce our coming. But we knew that a great English Excursion party, and also the Viceroy of Egypt, in his splendid yacht, had been refused an audience within the last fortnight, so we thought it not safe to try it. They said, no difference—the Emperor would hardly visit our ship, because that would be a most extraordinary favor, and one which he uniformly refuses to accord under any circumstances, but he would certainly receive us at his palace. We still declined. But we had to go to Odessa, 250 miles away, and there the Governor General urged us, and sent a telegram to the Emperor, which we hardly expected to be answered, but it was, and promptly. So we sailed back to Yalta.
We all went to the palace at noon, today, (3 miles) in carriages and on horses sent by the Emperor, and we had a jolly time. Instead of the usual formal audience of 15 minutes, we staid 4 hours and were made a good deal more at home than we could have been in a New York drawing-room. The whole tribe turned out to receive our party-Emperor, Empress, the oldest daughter (Grand-Duchess Marie, a pretty girl of 14,) a little Grand Duke, her brother, and a platoon of Admirals, Princes, Peers of the Empire, etc., and in a little while an aid-de-camp arrived with a request from the Grand Duke Michael, the Emperor's brother, that we would visit his palace and breakfast with him. The Emperor also invited us, on behalf of his absent eldest son and heir (aged 22,) to visit his palace and consider it a visit to him. They all talk English and they were all very neatly but very plainly dressed. You all dress a good deal finer than they were dressed. The Emperor and his family threw off all reserve and showed us all over the palace themselves. It is very rich and very elegant, but in no way gaudy.
I had been appointed chairman of a committee to draught an address to the Emperor in behalf of the passengers, and as I fully expected, and as they fully intended, I had to write the address myself. I didn't mind it, because I have no modesty and would as soon write to an Emperor as to anybody else—but considering that there were 5 on the committee I thought they might have contributed one paragraph among them, anyway. They wanted me to read it to him, too, but I declined that honor—not because I hadn't cheek enough (and some to spare,) but because our Consul at Odessa was along, and also the Secretary of our Legation at St. Petersburgh, and of course one of those ought to read it. The Emperor accepted the address—it was his business to do it—and so many others have praised it warmly that I begin to imagine it must be a wonderful sort of document and herewith send you the original draught of it to be put into alcohol and preserved forever like a curious reptile.
They live right well at the Grand Duke Michael's their breakfasts are not gorgeous but very excellent—and if Mike were to say the word I would go there and breakfast with him tomorrow.
SAM.
P. S. [Written across the face of the last page.] They had told us it would be polite to invite the Emperor to visit the ship, though he would not be likely to do it. But he didn't give us a chance—he has requested permission to come on board with his family and all his relations tomorrow and take a sail, in case it is calm weather. I can, entertain them. My hand is in, now, and if you want any more Emperors feted in style, trot them out.
volume of his work. With all the sight seeing he was averaging a
full four letters a week—long letters, requiring careful
observation and inquiry. How fresh and impressionable and full of
vigor he was, even in that fierce southern heat! No one makes the
Mediterranean trip in summer to-day, and the thought of adding
constant letter-writing to steady travel through southern France,
Italy, Greece, and Turkey in blazing midsummer is stupefying. And
Syria and Egypt in September!
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—All well. Do the Alta's come regularly? I wish I knew whether my letters reach them or not. Look over the back papers and see. I wrote them as follows:
1 from Gibraltar, in Spain.
1 from Tangier, in Africa.
2 from Paris and Marseilles, in France.
1 from Genoa, in Italy.
1 from Milan.
1 from Lake Como.
1 from some little place in Switzerland—have forgotten the name.
4 concerning Lecce, Bergamo, Padua, Verona, Battlefield of Marengo,
Pestachio, and some other cities in Northern Italy.
2 from Venice.
1 about Bologna.
1 from Florence.
1 from Pisa.
1 from Leghorn.
1 from Rome and Civita Vecchia.
2 from Naples.
1 about Pazzuoli, where St. Paul landed, the Baths of Nero, and the
ruins of Baia, Virgil's tomb, the Elysian Fields, the Sunken Cities and
the spot where Ulysses landed.
1 from Herculaneum and Vesuvius.
1 from Pompeii.
1 from the Island of Ischia.
1 concerning the Volcano of Stromboli, the city and Straits of
Messina, the land of Sicily, Scylla and Charybdis etc.
1 about the Grecian Archipelago.
1 about a midnight visit to Athens, the Piraeus and the ruins of
the Acropolis.
1 about the Hellespont, the site of ancient Troy, the Sea of
Marmara, etc.
2 about Constantinople, the Golden Horn and the beauties of the
Bosphorus.
1 from Odessa and Sebastopol in Russia, the Black Sea, etc.
2 from Yalta, Russia, concerning a visit to the Czar. And
yesterday I wrote another letter from Constantinople and
1 today about its neighbor in Asia, Scatter. I am not done with
Turkey yet. Shall write 2 or 3 more.
I have written to the New York Herald 2 letters from Naples, (no
name signed,) and 1 from Constantinople.
To the New York Tribune I have written
1 from Fayal. 1 from Civita Vecchia in the Roman States. 2 from
Yalta, Russia. And 1 from Constantinople.
I have never seen any of these letters in print except the one to the Tribune from Fayal and that was not worth printing.
We sail hence tomorrow, perhaps, and my next letters will be mailed at Smyrna, in Syria. I hope to write from the Sea of Tiberius, Damascus, Jerusalem, Joppa, and possibly other points in the Holy Land. The letters from Egypt, the Nile and Algiers I will look out for, myself. I will bring them in my pocket.
They take the finest photographs in the world here. I have ordered some. They will be sent to Alexandria, Egypt.
You cannot conceive of anything so beautiful as Constantinople, viewed from the Golden Horn or the Bosphorus. I think it must be the handsomest city in the world. I will go on deck and look at it for you, directly. I am staying in the ship, tonight. I generally stay on shore when we are in port. But yesterday I just ran myself down. Dan Slote, my room-mate, is on shore. He remained here while we went up the Black Sea, but it seems he has not got enough of it yet. I thought Dan had got the state-room pretty full of rubbish at last, but a while ago his dragoman arrived with a bran new, ghastly tomb-stone of the Oriental pattern, with his name handsomely carved and gilded on it, in Turkish characters. That fellow will buy a Circassian slave, next.
I am tired. We are going on a trip, tomorrow. I must to bed. Love to all.
SAM.
DEAR FOLKS,—We are here, eight of us, making a contract with a dragoman to take us to Baalbek, then to Damascus, Nazareth, &c. then to Lake Genassareth (Sea of Tiberias,) then South through all the celebrated Scriptural localities to Jerusalem—then to the Dead Sea, the Cave of Macpelah and up to Joppa where the ship will be. We shall be in the saddle three weeks—we have horses, tents, provisions, arms, a dragoman and two other servants, and we pay five dollars a day apiece, in gold.
SAM.
We leave tonight, at two o'clock in the morning.
none from Egypt. Perhaps with the desert and the delta the heat at
last became too fearful for anything beyond the actual requirements
of the day. When he began his next it was October, and the fiercer
travel was behind him.
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and family, in St. Louis:
DEAR FOLKS,—We have just dropped anchor before this handsome city and—
They would not let us land at Caghari on account of cholera. Nothing to write.
The Captain and I are ashore here under guard, waiting to know whether they will let the ship anchor or not. Quarantine regulations are very strict here on all vessels coming from Egypt. I am a little anxious because I want to go inland to Granada and see the Alhambra. I can go on down by Seville and Cordova, and be picked up at Cadiz.
Later: We cannot anchor—must go on. We shall be at Gibraltar before midnight and I think I will go horseback (a long days) and thence by rail and diligence to Cadiz. I will not mail this till I see the Gibraltar lights—I begin to think they won't let us in anywhere.
11.30 P. M.—Gibraltar.
At anchor and all right, but they won't let us land till morning—it is a waste of valuable time. We shall reach New York middle of November.
SAM.
DEAR FOLKS,—We left Gibraltar at noon and rode to Algeciras, (4 hours) thus dodging the quarantine, took dinner and then rode horseback all night in a swinging trot and at daylight took a caleche (a wheeled vehicle) and rode 5 hours—then took cars and traveled till twelve at night. That landed us at Seville and we were over the hard part of our trip, and somewhat tired. Since then we have taken things comparatively easy, drifting around from one town to another and attracting a good deal of attention, for I guess strangers do not wander through Andalusia and the other Southern provinces of Spain often. The country is precisely as it was when Don Quixote and Sancho Panza were possible characters.
But I see now what the glory of Spain must have been when it was under Moorish domination. No, I will not say that, but then when one is carried away, infatuated, entranced, with the wonders of the Alhambra and the supernatural beauty of the Alcazar, he is apt to overflow with admiration for the splendid intellects that created them.
I cannot write now. I am only dropping a line to let you know I am well. The ship will call for us here tomorrow. We may stop at Lisbon, and shall at the Bermudas, and will arrive in New York ten days after this letter gets there.
This is the last personal letter written during that famous first
sea-gipsying, and reading it our regret grows that he did not put
something of his Spanish excursion into his book. He never returned
to Spain, and he never wrote of it. Only the barest mention of
“seven beautiful days” is found in The Innocents Abroad.
VIII. LETTERS 1867-68. WASHINGTON AND SAN FRANCISCO. THE PROPOSED BOOK OF TRAVEL. A NEW LECTURE.
on this first famous book. We learn, for in stance, that it was he
who drafted the ship address to the Emperor—the opening lines of
which became so wearisome when repeated by the sailors.
Furthermore, we learn something of the scope and extent of his
newspaper correspondence, which must have kept him furiously busy,
done as it was in the midst of super-heated and continuous
sight-seeing. He wrote fifty three letters to the Alta-California,
six to the New York Tribune, and at least two to the New York
Herald more than sixty, all told, of an average, length of three to
four thousand words each. Mark Twain always claimed to be a lazy
man, and certainly he was likely to avoid an undertaking not suited
to his gifts, but he had energy in abundance for work in his chosen
field. To have piled up a correspondence of that size in the time,
and under the circumstances already noted, quality considered, may
be counted a record in the history of travel letters.
They made him famous. Arriving in New York, November 19, 1867, Mark
Twain found himself no longer unknown to the metropolis, or to any
portion of America. Papers East and West had copied his Alta and
Tribune letters and carried his name into every corner of the States
and Territories. He had preached a new gospel in travel literature,
the gospel of frankness and sincerity that Americans could
understand. Also his literary powers had awakened at last. His
work was no longer trivial, crude, and showy; it was full of
dignity, beauty, and power; his humor was finer, worthier. The
difference in quality between the Quaker City letters and those
written from the Sandwich Islands only a year before can scarcely be
measured.
He did not remain in New York, but went down to Washington, where he
had arranged for a private secretaryship with Senator William M.
Stewart,—[The “Bill” Stewart mentioned in the preceding chapter.]
whom he had known in Nevada. Such a position he believed would make
but little demand upon his time, and would afford him an insight
into Washington life, which he could make valuable in the shape of
newspaper correspondence.
But fate had other plans for him. He presently received the
following letter:
From Elisha Bliss, Jr., in Hartford
OFFICE OF THE AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.
HARTFORD, CONN, Nov 21, 1867.
SAMUEL L. CLEMENS Esq.
Tribune Office, New York.
DR. SIR,—We take the liberty to address you this, in place of a letter which we had recently written and was about to forward to you, not knowing your arrival home was expected so soon. We are desirous of obtaining from you a work of some kind, perhaps compiled from your letters from the East, &c., with such interesting additions as may be proper. We are the publishers of A. D. Richardson's works, and flatter ourselves that we can give an author as favorable terms and do as full justice to his productions as any other house in the country. We are perhaps the oldest subscription house in the country, and have never failed to give a book an immense circulation. We sold about 100,000 copies of Richardson's F. D. & E. (Field, Dungeon and Escape) and are now printing 41,000, of “Beyond the Mississippi,” and large orders ahead. If you have any thought of writing a book, or could be induced to do so, we should be pleased to see you; and will do so. Will you do us the favor to reply at once, at your earliest convenience.
E. BLISS, Jr.
Secty.
Clemens had already the idea of a book in mind and welcomed this
proposition.
WASHINGTON, Dec. 2, 1867.
E. BLISS, Jr. Esq.
Sec'y American Publishing Co.—
DEAR SIR,—I only received your favor of Nov. 21st last night, at the rooms of the Tribune Bureau here. It was forwarded from the Tribune office, New York, where it had lain eight or ten days. This will be a sufficient apology for the seeming discourtesy of my silence.
I wrote fifty-two (three) letters for the San Francisco “Alta California” during the Quaker City excursion, about half of which number have been printed, thus far. The “Alta” has few exchanges in the East, and I suppose scarcely any of these letters have been copied on this side of the Rocky Mountains. I could weed them of their chief faults of construction and inelegancies of expression and make a volume that would be more acceptable in many respects than any I could now write. When those letters were written my impressions were fresh, but now they have lost that freshness; they were warm then—they are cold, now. I could strike out certain letters, and write new ones wherewith to supply their places. If you think such a book would suit your purpose, please drop me a line, specifying the size and general style of the volume; when the matter ought to be ready; whether it should have pictures in it or not; and particularly what your terms with me would be, and what amount of money I might possibly make out of it. The latter clause has a degree of importance for me which is almost beyond my own comprehension. But you understand that, of course.
I have other propositions for a book, but have doubted the propriety of interfering with good newspaper engagements, except my way as an author could be demonstrated to be plain before me. But I know Richardson, and learned from him some months ago, something of an idea of the subscription plan of publishing. If that is your plan invariably, it looks safe.
I am on the N. Y. Tribune staff here as an “occasional,”, among other things, and a note from you addressed to
SAM L. CLEMENS
New York Tribune Bureau, Washington, will find me, without fail.
most notable publishing connections in American literary history.
The book, however, was not begun immediately. Bliss was in poor
health and final arrangements were delayed; it was not until late in
January that Clemens went to Hartford and concluded the arrangement.
Meantime, fate had disclosed another matter of even greater
importance; we get the first hint of it in the following letter,
though to him its beginning had been earlier—on a day in the blue
harbor of Smyrna, when young Charles Langdon, a fellow-passenger on
the Quaker City, had shown to Mark Twain a miniature of young
Langdon's sister at home:
To Mrs. Jane Clemens and Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis: