London, 1873: Naser al-Din Shah Qajar (left) in royal carriage with Prince Albert Edward VII, Queen Victoria's eldest son.
New York Herald, July 4, 1873
THE SHAH.
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Mark Twain Executes His Contract and Delivers the Persian in London.
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CROSSING THE CHANNEL.
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How England’s Fleets Saluted the Successor of Cyrus.
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A WELCOME OF THUNDERS.
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Correspondents Prefer Champagne in the Wardroom to Note-Taking on Deck.
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TWAIN’S CONVENIENT “PACK.”
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Diamonds the Standing Trump Among the Royal Party, but Court Cards Inconvenient for News “Memo’s.”
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THE DANCE BEFORE DOVER.
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Ships of All Shapes and Sizes Alive with Men and Gay with Banners and Sunshine.
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EIGHTY MILES OF APPLAUSE
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London and the Shah “Impressed” by a Genuine English Rain.
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London, June 19, 1873.
SOME PERSIAN FINERY.
Leaving Ostend we went out to sea under a clear sky and upon smooth water―so smooth, indeed, that its surface was scarcely rippled. I say the sky was clear, and so it was, clear and sunny; but a rich haze lay upon the water in the distance―a soft, mellow mist, through which a scattering sail or two loomed vaguely. One may call such a morning perfect.
The corps of correspondents were well jaded with their railway journey, but after champagne and soda down stairs with the officers, everybody came up refreshed and cheery and exceedingly well acquainted all around. The Persian grandees had meantime taken up a position in a glass house on the after deck, and were sipping coffee in a grave, Oriental way. They all had much lighter complexions and a more European cast of features than I was prepared for, and several of them were exceedingly handsome, fine looking men.
They all sat in a circle on a sofa (the deckhouse being circular), and they made a right gaudy spectacle. Their breasts were completely crusted with gold bullion embroidery of a pattern resembling rayed and interlacing ferns, and they had large jeweled ornaments on their breasts also. The Grand Vizier came out to have a look around. In addition to the sumptuous gold fernery on his breast he wore a jewelled star as large as the palm of my hand, and about his neck hung the Shah’s miniature, reposing in a bed of diamonds, that gleamed and flashed in a wonderful way when touched by the sunlight. It was said that to receive the Shah’s portrait from the Shah was the highest compliment that could be conferred upon a Persian subject. I did not care so much about the diamonds, but I would have liked to have the portrait very much. The Grand Vizier’s sword-hilt and the whole back of the sheath from end to end were composed of a neat and simple combination of some twelve or fifteen thousand emeralds and diamonds.
“IMPRESSING” A PERSIAN GENERAL.
Several of the Persians talked French and English. One of them, who was said to be a general, came upon the bridge where some of us were standing, pointed to a sailor, and asked me if I could tell him what that sailor was doing?
I said he was communicating with the other ships by means of the optical telegraph―that by using the three sticks the whole alphabet could be expressed. I showed him how A, B, and C were made, and so forth. Good! This Persian was “impressed!” He showed it by his eyes, by his gestures, by his manifest surprise and delight. I said to myself, if the Shah were only here now, the grand desire of Great Britain could be accomplished. The General immediately called the other grandees and told them about this telegraphic wonder. Then he said:―
“Now does every one on board acquire this knowledge?”
“No, only the officers.”
“And this sailor?”
“He is the only signalman. Two or three sailors on board are detailed for this service, and by order and direction of the officers they communicate with the other ships.”
“Very good! Very fine! Very great indeed!”
These men were unquestionably impressed. I got the sailor to bring the signal book, and the matter was fully explained, to their high astonishment; also the flag signals, and likewise the lamp signals for night telegraphing. Of course the idea came into my head, in the first place, to ask one of the officers to conduct this bit of instruction, but I at once dismissed it. I judged that this would all go to the Shah, sooner or later. I had come over on purpose to “impress the Shah,” and I was not going to throw away my opportunity. I wished the Queen had been there; I would have been knighted, sure. You see, they knight people here for all sorts of things―knight them, or put them into the peerage and make great personages of them. Now, for instance a king comes over here on a visit; the Lord Mayor and sheriffs do him becoming honors in the city, and straightaway the former is created a baronet and the latter are knighted. When the Prince of Wales recovered from his illness one of his chief physicians was made a baronet and the other was knighted. Charles II made duchesses one or two female acquaintances of his for something or other―I have forgotten now what it was they did. The illustrious Pollock (in youth a London shoemaker’s apprentice) became a great soldier―indeed, a Wellington―won prodigious victories in many climes and covered the British arms with glory all through a long life; and when he was 187 years old they knighted him and made him Constable of the Tower. But he died next year and they buried him in Westminster Abbey. There is no telling what that man might have become if he had lived. So you see what a chance I had; for I have no doubt in the world that I have been the humble instrument, under Providence, of “impressing the Shah.” And I really believe that if the Queen comes to hear of it I shall be made a Duke.
Friends intending to write will not need to be reminded that a Duke is addressed as “Your Grace;” it is considered a great offence to leave that off.
A PICTURESQUE NAVAL SPECTACLE.
When we were a mile or so out from Ostend conversation ceased, an expectant look came into all faces and opera glasses began to stand out from above all noses. This impressive hush lasted a few minutes, and someone said―
“There they are!”
“Where?”
“Away yonder ahead―straight ahead.”
Which was true. Three huge shapes smothered in the haze―the Vanguard, the Audacious and the Devastation―all great iron-clads. They were to do escort duty. The officers and correspondents gathered on the forecastle and waited for the next act. A red spout of fire issued from the Vanguard’s side, another flashed from the Audacious. Beautiful these red tongues were against the dark haze. Then there was a long pause―ever so long a pause and not a sound, not the suspicion of sound; and now, out of the stillness, came a deep, solemn “boom! boom!” It had not occurred to me that at so great a distance I would not hear the report as soon as I saw the flash. The two crimson jets were very beautiful, but not more so than the rolling volumes of white smoke that plunged after them, rested a moment over the water and then went wreathing and curling up among the webbed rigging and the tall masts, and left only glimpses of these things visible, high up in the air, projecting as if from a fog.
Now the flashes came thick and fast from the black sides of both vessels. The muffled thunders of the guns mingled together in one continued roll, the two ships were lost to sight, and in their places two mountains of tumbled smoke rested upon the motionless water, their bases in the hazy twilight and their summits shining in the sun. It was good to be there and see so fine a spectacle as that.
THE NAVAL SALUTE.
We closed up fast upon the iron-clads. They fell apart to let our flotilla come between, and as the Vigilant ranged up the rigging of the iron-clads was manned to salute the Shah. And, indeed, that was something to see. The shrouds, from the decks clear to the trucks, away up toward the sky, were black with men. On the lower rounds of these rope holders they stood five abreast, holding each other’s hands, and so the tapering shrouds formed attenuated pyramids of humanity, six pyramids of them towering into the upper air, and clear up on the top of each dizzy mast stood a little creature like a clothes pin―a mere black peg against the sky―and that mite was a sailor waving a flag like a postage stamp. All at once the pyramids of men burst into a cheer, and followed it with two more, given with a will; and if the Shah was not impressed he must be the offspring of a mummy.
And just at this moment, while we all stood there gazing―
However breakfast was announced and I did not wait to see.
THE THIRTY-FOUR TON GUNS SPEAK.
If there is one thing that is pleasanter than another it is to take breakfast in the wardroom with a dozen naval officers. Of course, that awe-inspiring monarch, the captain, is aft, keeping frozen state with the Grand Viziers when there are any on board, and so there is nobody in the wardroom to maintain naval etiquette. As a consequence none is maintained. One officer, in a splendid uniform, snatches a champagne bottle from a steward and opens it himself; another keeps the servants moving; another opens soda; everybody eats, drinks, shouts, laughs, in the most unconstrained way, and it does seem a pity that ever the thing should come to an end. No individual present seemed sorry he was not in the ship with the Shah. When the festivities had been going on about an hour, some tremendous booming was heard outside. Now here was a question between duty and broiled chicken. What might that booming mean? Anguish sat upon the faces of the correspondents. I watched to see what they would do, and the precious moments were flying. Somebody cried down a companionway:―
“The Devastation is saluting!”
The correspondents tumbled over each other, over chairs, over everything, in their frenzy to get on deck, and the last gun reverberated as the last heel disappeared on the stairs. The Devastation, the pride of England, the mightiest war vessel afloat, carrying guns that outweigh any metal in any service, it is said (thirty-five tons each), and these boys had missed that spectacle―at least I knew that some of them had. I did not go. Age has taught me wisdom. If a spectacle is going to be particularly imposing I prefer to see it through somebody else’s eyes, because that man will always exaggerate. Then I can exaggerate his exaggeration, and my account of the thing will be the most impressive.
But I felt that I had missed my figure this time, because I was not sure which of these gentlemen reached the deck in time for a glimpse and which didn’t. And this morning I cannot tell by the London papers. They all have imposing descriptions of that thing, and no one of them resembles another. Mr. X’s is perhaps the finest, but he was singing a song about “Spring, Spring, Gentle Spring,” all through the bombardment, and was over-excited I fear.
The next best was Mr. Y’s; but he was telling about how he took a Russian battery, along with another man, during the Crimean war, and he was not fairly through the story till the salute was over, though I remember he went up and saw the smoke. I will not frame a description of the Devastation’s salute, for I have no material that I can feel sure is reliable.
THE GRAND SPECTACULAR CLIMAX.
When we first sailed away from Ostend I found myself in a dilemma; I had no notebook. But “any port in a storm,” as the sailors say. I found a fair, full pack of ordinary playing cards in my overcoat pocket―one always likes to have something along to amuse children with―and really they proved excellent to take notes on, although bystanders were a bit inclined to poke fun at them and ask facetious questions. But I was content; I made all the notes I needed. The aces and low “spot” cards are very good indeed to write memoranda on, but I will not recommend the Kings and Jacks.
SPEAKING BY THE CARDS.
Referring to the seven of hearts, I find that this naval exhibition and journey from Ostend to Dover is going to cost the government £500,000. Got it from a correspondent. It is a round sum.
Referring to the ace of diamonds, I find that along in the afternoon we sighted a fresh fleet of men-of-war coming to meet us. The rest of the diamonds, down to the eight spot (nines and tens are no good for notes) are taken up with details of that spectacle. Most of the clubs and hearts refer to matters immediately following that, but I really can hardly do anything with them because I have forgotten what was trumps.
THE SPECTACLE.
But never mind. The sea scene grew little by little, until presently it was very imposing. We drew up into the midst of a waiting host of vessels. Enormous five-masted men-of-war, great turret ships, steam packets, pleasure yachts―every sort of craft, indeed―the sea was thick with them; the yards and rigging of the warships loaded with men, the packets crowded with people, the pleasure ships rainbowed with brilliant flags all over and over―some with flags strung thick on lines stretching from bowsprit to foremast, thence to mainmast, thence to mizzenmast and thence to stern. All the ships were in motion―gliding hither and thither, in and out, mingling and parting―a bewildering whirl of flash and color. Our leader, the vast, black, ugly, but very formidable Devastation, ploughed straight through the gay throng, our Shah-ships following, the lines of big men-of-war saluting, the booming of the guns drowning and cheering, stately islands of smoke towering everywhere. And so, in this condition of unspeakable grandeur, we swept into the harbor of Dover, and saw the English princes and the long ranks of red-coated soldiers waiting on the pier, civilian multitudes behind them, the lofty hill front by the castle swarming with spectators, and there was the crash of cannon and a general hurrah all through the air. It was rather a contrast to silent Ostend and the unimpressible Flanders.
THE SHAH “IMPRESSED” AT LAST.
The Duke of Edinburgh and Prince Arthur received the Shah in state, and then all of us―princes, Shahs, ambassadors, Grand Viziers and newspaper correspondents―climbed aboard the train and started off to London just like so many brothers.
From Dover to London it was a sight to see. Seventy miles of human beings in a jam―the gaps were not worth mentioning―and every man, woman and child waving hat or handkerchief and cheering. I wondered―could not tell―could not be sure―could only wonder―would this “impress the Shah?” I would have given anything to know. But―well, it ought―but―still one could not tell.
And by and by we burst into the London Railway station―a very large station it is―and found it wonderfully decorated and all the neighboring streets packed with cheering citizens. Would this impress the Shah? I―I―well, I could not yet feel certain.
The Prince of Wales received the Shah―ah, you should have seen how gorgeously the Shah was dressed now―he was like the sun in a total eclipse of rainbows―yes, the Prince received him, put him in a grand open carriage, got in, and made him sit over further and not “crowd,” the carriage clattered out of the station, all London fell apart on either side and lifted a perfectly national cheer, and just at that instant the bottom fell out of the sky and forty deluges came pouring down at once!
The great strain was over, the crushing suspense at an end. I said, “Thank God, this will impress the Shah.”
Now came the long files of Horse Guards in silver armor. We took the great Persian to Buckingham Palace. I never stirred till I saw the gates open and close upon him with my own eyes and knew he was there. Then I said:―
“England, here is your Shah; take him and be happy, but don’t ever ask me to fetch over another one.”
This contract has been pretty straining on me.
MARK TWAIN.
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