Pudd’nhead Wilson

Pudd’nhead Wilson

By Mark Twain.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. A Whisper to the Reader
4. Pudd’nhead Wilson
   1. I: Pudd’nhead Wins His Name
   2. II: Driscoll Spares His Slaves
   3. III: Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick
   4. IV: The Ways of the Changelings
   5. V: The Twins Thrill Dawson’s Landing
   6. VI: Swimming in Glory
   7. VII: The Unknown Nymph
   8. VIII: Marse Tom Tramples His Chance
   9. IX: Tom Practises Sycophancy
   10. X: The Nymph Revealed
   11. XI: Pudd’nhead’s Startling Discovery
   12. XII: The Shame of Judge Driscoll
   13. XIII: Tom Stares at Ruin
   14. XIV: Roxana Insists Upon Reform
   15. XV: The Robber Robbed
   16. XVI: Sold Down the River
   17. XVII: The Judge Utters Dire Prophecy
   18. XVIII: Roxana Commands
   19. XIX: The Prophecy Realized
   20. XX: The Murderer Chuckles
   21. XXI: Doom
   22. Conclusion
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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A Whisper to the Reader

There is no character, howsoever good and fine, but it can be destroyed by ridicule, howsoever poor and witless. Observe the ass, for instance: his character is about perfect, he is the choicest spirit among all the humbler animals, yet see what ridicule has brought him to. Instead of feeling complimented when we are called an ass, we are left in doubt.

Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

A person who is ignorant of legal matters is always liable to make mistakes when he tries to photograph a court scene with his pen; and so I was not willing to let the law chapters in this book go to press without first subjecting them to rigid and exhausting revision and correction by a trained barrister⁠—if that is what they are called. These chapters are right, now, in every detail, for they were rewritten under the immediate eye of William Hicks, who studied law part of a while in southwest Missouri thirty-five years ago and then came over here to Florence for his health and is still helping for exercise and board in Macaroni Vermicelli’s horse-feed shed which is up the back alley as you turn around the corner out of the Piazza del Duomo just beyond the house where that stone that Dante used to sit on six hundred years ago is let into the wall when he let on to be watching them build Giotto’s campanile and yet always got tired looking as soon as Beatrice passed along on her way to get a chunk of chestnut cake to defend herself with in case of a Ghibelline outbreak before she got to school, at the same old stand where they sell the same old cake to this day and it is just as light and good as it was then, too, and this is not flattery, far from it. He was a little rusty on his law, but he rubbed up for this book, and those two or three legal chapters are right and straight, now. He told me so himself.

Given under my hand this second day of January, 1893, at the Villa Viviani, village of Settignano, three miles back of Florence, on the hills⁠—the same certainly affording the most charming view to be found on this planet, and with it the most dreamlike and enchanting sunsets to be found in any planet or even in any solar system⁠—and given, too, in the swell room of the house, with the busts of Cerretani senators and other grandees of this line looking approvingly down upon me as they used to look down upon Dante, and mutely asking me to adopt them into my family, which I do with pleasure, for my remotest ancestors are but spring chickens compared with these robed and stately antiques, and it will be a great and satisfying lift for me, that six hundred years will.

Mark Twain.

Pudd’nhead Wilson

I

Pudd’nhead Wins His Name

Tell the truth or trump⁠—but get the trick.

Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar

The scene of this chronicle is the town of Dawson’s Landing, on the Missouri side of the Mississippi, half a day’s journey, per steamboat, below St. Louis.

In 1830 it was a snug little collection of modest one- and two-story frame dwellings whose whitewashed exteriors were almost concealed from sight by climbing tangles of rose-vines, honeysuckles, and morning-glories. Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front fenced with white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds, touch-me-nots, prince’s-feathers and other old-fashioned flowers; while on the windowsills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing moss-rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium whose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was room on the ledge outside of the pots and