JOHN H. WILLIAMS.
Mr. J. H. Williams, better known as “the Norristown Herald man,” is one of the few successful latter-day humorists. He was born in Montgomery county, Pennsylvania, and after a few years of common school education, he located in Norristown, a lively town of the Keystone State, serving an apprenticeship as a printer’s devil. In 1860 he began writing for the New York Mercury over the signature of “B. Dadd.” About this time he also produced a series of letters signed “A. Ward, Jr.,” which, by the way, were excellent imitations, and were widely copied, some papers dropping the Jr. and crediting them to Artemus Ward himself. For several years Williams resided in Wilmington, Delaware, but in 1871 he returned to Norristown and became attached to the Herald. Williams is considered one of the most rollicking writers on the American press. He is still a young man and has been married for several years. He forbade my writing a biography for him and begged of me to allow him tocompose his own “obituary,” as he is pleased to call it. Here is what he wrote:
“My Dear Mr. Clemens:“A man’s biography auto always be written by himself. A disinterested party is liable to omit some of the facts. A personal history should above all things be truthful—devoid of fulsomeness, and embrace all the important events of its subject’s life, good or bad. Too many biographers lie like a patent medicine advertisement. This is to be regretted.“My memory is too treacherous to write my own life anyhow. I have been informed that I was present on the occasion of my birth, but I haven’t the slightest recollection of it—as some one has previously remarked.“I am older—am uglier—than I was two score years ago.“Then, young ladies would chuck me under the chin and gushingly exclaim: “B’ess its purty ’ittle heart.”“Now—they don’t.“And I am rather glad of it, for the aforesaid young ladies must be nearly sixty years old now, and some of them wear glasses and decayed teeth. If I had time, dear reader, I could tell you how, in 1492, under thenom de plumeof Christopher Columbus, I discovered America. This is a fact not generallyknown. Sometimes it seems like a wild, weird dream. You may have read something about the discovery. It was considered important at the time; but more than one person, no doubt, upon looking around and seeing the distressing amount of misery in America, and observing how bogus mining companies, policy shops, rowing matches, political corruption and other frauds flourish like a green baize, will regret that I ever discovered it.“I have one wife.“I could, if my other duties permitted, describe how, in 1773, I surrounded thirty-two wild Indians, and after a hand-to-hand conflict lasting seven hours, I killed twenty-four of the redskins, wounded sixteen, and took eleven prisoners. The remainder fled. Aside from being pierced by twenty-one arrows, I escaped without a scratch.“And yet I was never made the hero of a dime novel! Probably because I didn’t wear long hair and a soft hat as big around as a cart wheel.“I am not addicted to bicycle riding—and therefore still retain the respect of my neighbors.“If it was not my hour to go out and see a man, it would afford me great pleasure to allude to the day that I landed at Plymouth Rock, with a lot of pilgrims, without any “rocks” in my pocket. I shall never do it again.“I never wrote a comic opera.“This assertion, if made public, would be received with an air—or rather a tornado of incredulity. It would be accepted as a wild, reckless piece of exaggeration. And yet it is a positive fact.“I shall not refer to the time I fell at Bunker Hill—caused by stepping on a banana skin,—nor mention the fact that I once struck a gentleman called Billy Patterson. I forgot the date of the latter event; but I desire to say in extenuation that Mr. Patterson struck me first. And yet he had the facial prominence to sue me for assault and battery. However, the grand jury ignored the bill, and saddled the cost upon the plaintiff.“I have never—never, understand, without any ‘hardly’ qualification about it—lectured.“My wife has, to an audience of one.“I don’t suppose it would interest the general public to know that, about sixty years ago, while at breakfast, I was blown up with dynamite, by a party of enraged subscribers of our paper. Their provocation was great, but I think they were a little too impetuous, as it were. In an unguarded moment, I printed the alleged pun, ‘What did the corn-brake?’ and thousands of our subscribers nearly lost their reason trying to discover the joke, which they naturally thought must lurk therein.About fifty of them arose in their might,—and dynamite,—and elevated things. I lost two arms and two legs. But this was not the worst. A religious weekly chromo was irreparably ruined. Perhaps I should explain that the arms and legs belonged to a chair and a table, respectively.“This little incident effectually cured me of punning in print. I have not made a joke since.“I invented the ‘fifteen puzzle,’ but I would rather not have this piece of imprudence made known until I get my life heavily insured.“Since 1850 I have killed my grandmother, burned an orphan asylum, embezzled fifty thousand dollars, and committed arson. These facts came out soon after I was nominated for a political office. They came out in an opposition paper. They always do; and the only way to prevent their appearance is to buy the paper—or its editor.“I have never been in jail or in Congress—though there may be worse people in both pla—. But, as I remarked at the outset, I am compelled to forego the pleasure of sending you a biographical sketch. I suppose my esteemed friend, Eli Perkins, would write one for me for a mere pittance, but I would rather journey through life without a biography to my back, than to have onethat does not breathe the spirit of truth, in every line—truth that is neither warped nor bent—sweet, pure, undefiled truth that will wash.“Yours, etc.,J. H. Williams.”
“My Dear Mr. Clemens:
“A man’s biography auto always be written by himself. A disinterested party is liable to omit some of the facts. A personal history should above all things be truthful—devoid of fulsomeness, and embrace all the important events of its subject’s life, good or bad. Too many biographers lie like a patent medicine advertisement. This is to be regretted.
“My memory is too treacherous to write my own life anyhow. I have been informed that I was present on the occasion of my birth, but I haven’t the slightest recollection of it—as some one has previously remarked.
“I am older—am uglier—than I was two score years ago.
“Then, young ladies would chuck me under the chin and gushingly exclaim: “B’ess its purty ’ittle heart.”
“Now—they don’t.
“And I am rather glad of it, for the aforesaid young ladies must be nearly sixty years old now, and some of them wear glasses and decayed teeth. If I had time, dear reader, I could tell you how, in 1492, under thenom de plumeof Christopher Columbus, I discovered America. This is a fact not generallyknown. Sometimes it seems like a wild, weird dream. You may have read something about the discovery. It was considered important at the time; but more than one person, no doubt, upon looking around and seeing the distressing amount of misery in America, and observing how bogus mining companies, policy shops, rowing matches, political corruption and other frauds flourish like a green baize, will regret that I ever discovered it.
“I have one wife.
“I could, if my other duties permitted, describe how, in 1773, I surrounded thirty-two wild Indians, and after a hand-to-hand conflict lasting seven hours, I killed twenty-four of the redskins, wounded sixteen, and took eleven prisoners. The remainder fled. Aside from being pierced by twenty-one arrows, I escaped without a scratch.
“And yet I was never made the hero of a dime novel! Probably because I didn’t wear long hair and a soft hat as big around as a cart wheel.
“I am not addicted to bicycle riding—and therefore still retain the respect of my neighbors.
“If it was not my hour to go out and see a man, it would afford me great pleasure to allude to the day that I landed at Plymouth Rock, with a lot of pilgrims, without any “rocks” in my pocket. I shall never do it again.
“I never wrote a comic opera.
“This assertion, if made public, would be received with an air—or rather a tornado of incredulity. It would be accepted as a wild, reckless piece of exaggeration. And yet it is a positive fact.
“I shall not refer to the time I fell at Bunker Hill—caused by stepping on a banana skin,—nor mention the fact that I once struck a gentleman called Billy Patterson. I forgot the date of the latter event; but I desire to say in extenuation that Mr. Patterson struck me first. And yet he had the facial prominence to sue me for assault and battery. However, the grand jury ignored the bill, and saddled the cost upon the plaintiff.
“I have never—never, understand, without any ‘hardly’ qualification about it—lectured.
“My wife has, to an audience of one.
“I don’t suppose it would interest the general public to know that, about sixty years ago, while at breakfast, I was blown up with dynamite, by a party of enraged subscribers of our paper. Their provocation was great, but I think they were a little too impetuous, as it were. In an unguarded moment, I printed the alleged pun, ‘What did the corn-brake?’ and thousands of our subscribers nearly lost their reason trying to discover the joke, which they naturally thought must lurk therein.About fifty of them arose in their might,—and dynamite,—and elevated things. I lost two arms and two legs. But this was not the worst. A religious weekly chromo was irreparably ruined. Perhaps I should explain that the arms and legs belonged to a chair and a table, respectively.
“This little incident effectually cured me of punning in print. I have not made a joke since.
“I invented the ‘fifteen puzzle,’ but I would rather not have this piece of imprudence made known until I get my life heavily insured.
“Since 1850 I have killed my grandmother, burned an orphan asylum, embezzled fifty thousand dollars, and committed arson. These facts came out soon after I was nominated for a political office. They came out in an opposition paper. They always do; and the only way to prevent their appearance is to buy the paper—or its editor.
“I have never been in jail or in Congress—though there may be worse people in both pla—. But, as I remarked at the outset, I am compelled to forego the pleasure of sending you a biographical sketch. I suppose my esteemed friend, Eli Perkins, would write one for me for a mere pittance, but I would rather journey through life without a biography to my back, than to have onethat does not breathe the spirit of truth, in every line—truth that is neither warped nor bent—sweet, pure, undefiled truth that will wash.
“Yours, etc.,
J. H. Williams.”