An Emperor Among Us

The cigar smoke hung heavy in Mark Twain’s sitting room. Large enough to accommodate all 20 members of the Monday Evening Club, it was not designed as a smoking room for such a large gathering. For a modicum of comfort, the windows were opened for ventilation, despite the cold winter air which wafted through the room, only partially abating the cloud of smoke.

The Monday Evening Club was a private club composed of invited members. Its purpose was to enjoy a fine dinner hosted by a member of the club followed by a presentation, or the reading of a paper by a fellow member of the club. This evening’s meeting was hosted by Mr. Mark Twain, and featured a presentation by him as well. He, more than the others, liked the idea of killing two birds with one stone and meeting the two requirements concurrently.

Dinner having been finished, the members gathered in the sitting room, anxious to hear what Mr. Twain had to say. Once they were settled, the whiskey and brandy were poured. Mark Twain removed a cigar from the humidor, went to the front of the room, and stood before the large, crackling fireplace. He placed his glass of whiskey on the mantle, raised his hand, and waited for silence.

“The Trouble Will Begin at Eight.” That’s the clever slogan I employed when advertising my lectures many years ago back in Nevada and California. It worked very well, creating interest in my upcoming appearances. I have resurrected it for the publicity used to promote this evening’s festivities: “An Invitation to the Members of the Monday Evening Club. Dinner and a Lecture at the home of Mr. Mark Twain, Hartford, Connecticut. Monday, February 2, 1880. Dinner will be served at six o’clock. The Trouble Will Begin at Eight”.

Now, the dinner portion of this proposition has been completed, and it’s time for “the trouble” to begin. So sit back, relax, and prepare to be impressed!

Being among friends, and fellow members of the Monday Evening Club, I certainly don’t need an introduction. However, I am reminded of the time when I first began giving lectures back in those early days. For one of my early appearances in a place called Red Dog, a mining community near Dutch Flat, I was introduced thusly . . .

“. . . Ladies and gentlemen, I shall not waste any unnecessary time in the introduction. I don’t know anything about this man; at least I know only two things about him; one is that he has never been in the penitentiary, and another is that I can’t imagine why not.”

While you laugh, permit me to pause a moment to light my cigar. You know, as an example to others, and not that I care for moderation, myself, it has always been my rule never to smoke when asleep and never to refrain when awake! So, bear with me . . .

I would like to make a departure from what I had planned to say to you tonight. It was going to be a reading of my paper on The Decay of the Art of Lying. I’m sure you would have enjoyed it, especially since I am an expert in that subject. But you’ll have to wait to hear it – perhaps for my next presentation to this exemplary group.

Tonight, I’m going to tell you a story – a true story – and, as most of you already know, I like a good story well told. That is the reason I am sometimes forced to tell them myself.

I was shocked and saddened when I picked up the January 10th issue of the New York Times and learned that my old friend, Emperor Norton, had dropped dead on a San Francisco street two nights before. First, let me tell you the details of his death, and, in doing so, I’ll give you a brief overview of this fascinating man.

Joshua Norton died on Thursday, January 8, at 8:15 in the evening, near the corner of California Street and Dupont (now known as Grant Avenue), across from old St. Mary’s Cathedral. The cause, they say, was sanguineous apoplexy – a stroke. Minutes earlier, he had been lumbering along the wet sidewalk, carefully avoiding puddles as he went, having only a few blocks to go to reach his destination – the 8:30 p.m. lecture at the Academy of Sciences. Suddenly he lurched and fell, and ten minutes later he was dead.

Although nearly penniless – a pauper dependent on the goodwill of others – he had proclaimed himself Emperor of the United States and had wandered the streets of San Francisco for  23 years. Had he been a mere mortal, his death would have gone by barely noticed. But as he was the Emperor, notices of his death, I am told, have received more ink and more space in newspapers across this country than any other death since the assassination of President Lincoln.
It was a moonless night, and the sky was dripping with an incessant rain. Although not particularly windy, occasional gusts of wind quickly grabbed ahold of his oversized bamboo umbrella, yanking him forward. The walking stick he held in his right hand was used not only for steadiness, but also as a brake to slow his forward motion as these small gusts showed themselves.
 
Suddenly, his steps halted as he froze for a moment. He moved a bit, froze again, and then pitched violently forward. The umbrella flew from his hands, skidding a distance along the street and his walking stick dropped and cracked as it hit the ground, bouncing into the gutter. He fell to the sidewalk, first to his knees, then to his side, and finally rolling to a prone position. His large beaver hat fell off his head and rolled along the wet pavement, into the gutter.

A gentleman, walking nearby, witnessed the old man’s fall and came running to assist. He quickly saw that this was more than just a fall. The old man, whom he recognized, was convulsing, and his beard was covered with spittle. He hollered out to anyone who would hear, “Call for help! It’s the Emperor! He’s having an attack!” Other people gathered near, and a local policeman walking his beat responded by calling for a carriage to take the old man to the City Receiving Hospital.

The crowd had grown and the questions and theories had begun. “What happened? Is he alive? Who is it? Oh, my God! It’s Emperor Norton!”

The Emperor was placed in a sitting posture with his back supported against the side of the building. One brave soul had removed his own coat and placed it behind the Emperor’s head, and the group of onlookers huddled close so as to protect him as best they could from the wind and the rain.

Despite their best efforts, intentions and prayers, he died before the carriage arrived. It was the end of the reign of San Francisco’s famous citizen, Emperor Norton I, the Emperor of the United States.

Of course, he wasn’t an emperor. Joshua Norton had sailed into San Francisco Bay 31 years earlier, in 1849, at the age of 30, with $40,000 in his pocket. Within four years, he had increased his fortune to about a quarter million dollars. In another four years he was penniless. In a singular stroke of bad luck he had lost it all. He also appeared to lose his sanity and sense of reality – at least as far as his own person was concerned. He disappeared for a time, then reappeared – much the worse for wear, and still without funds – proclaiming himself to be the Emperor of the United States. For a short time, he even added the title, “Protector of Mexico”, in deference to our southern neighbors. Norton spent the rest of his life wandering the streets of San Francisco, making and enforcing his proclamations, selling his own private currency, and looking out for the best interests of his adopted city.