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The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut
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24 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1877
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243 people want to read
About the author
Mark Twain
9,049 books18.8k followersLibrarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the Goodreads database.
Samuel Langhorne Clemens, known by the pen name Mark Twain, was an American writer, humorist and essayist. He was praised as the "greatest humorist the United States has produced," with William Faulkner calling him "the father of American literature." His novels include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), with the latter often called the "Great American Novel." Twain also wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889) and Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894), and co-wrote The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873) with Charles Dudley Warner.
Samuel Langhorne Clemens, known by the pen name Mark Twain, was an American writer, humorist and essayist. He was praised as the "greatest humorist the United States has produced," with William Faulkner calling him "the father of American literature." His novels include The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876) and its sequel, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), with the latter often called the "Great American Novel." Twain also wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889) and Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894), and co-wrote The Gilded Age: A Tale of Today (1873) with Charles Dudley Warner.
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Displaying 1 - 24 of 24 reviews
May 27, 2024
"But I am not an ass; I am only the saddle of an ass."
January 13, 2025
But I am not an ass; I am only the saddle of an ass.
July 27, 2016
Online: THE CARNIVAL of CRIME in CONNECTICUT by Mark Twain
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnL...-
I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and honored most in all the world, outside of my own household. She had been my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments, had not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently among the impossibilities. To show how strong her influence over me was, I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the matter. But all things have their limit in this world. A happy day came at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me. I was not merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad--I was grateful; for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment of my aunt's society was gone. The remainder of her stay with us that winter was in every way a delight. Of course she pleaded with me just as earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my pernicious habit, but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened the subject I at once became calmly, peacefully, contentedly indifferent--absolutely, adamantinely indifferent. Consequently the closing weeks of that memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream, they were so freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction. I could not have enjoyed my pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself, and an advocate of the practice. Well, the sight of her handwriting reminded me that I way getting very hungry to see her again. I easily guessed what I should find in her letter. I opened it. Good! just as I expected; she was coming! Coming this very day, too, and by the morning train; I might expect her any moment.
I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now. If my most pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely right any wrong I may have done him."
Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered. He was not more than two feet high. He seemed to be about forty years old. Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so, while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say, "This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this little person was a deformity as a whole--a vague, general, evenly blended, nicely adjusted deformity. There was a fox-like cunning in the face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice. And yet, this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and ill-defined resemblance to me! It was dully perceptible in the mean form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner, and attitudes of the creature. He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of a burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little. One thing about him struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with a fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread. The sight of it was nauseating. He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked. He tossed his hat into the waste-basket. He picked up my old chalk pipe from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the bowl from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert command: "Gimme a match!"
I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in my intercourse with familiar friends--but never, never with strangers, I observed to myself. I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire, but some incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his authority forced me to obey his order. He applied the match to the pipe, took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an irritatingly familiar way:
"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."
I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the language was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day, and moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style. Now there is nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my drawling infirmity of speech. I spoke up sharply and said:
"Look here, you miserable ash-cat! you will have to give a little more attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"
see the rest of the story by link above . . .
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnL...-
I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me. It was Aunt Mary's; and she was the person I loved and honored most in all the world, outside of my own household. She had been my boyhood's idol; maturity, which is fatal to so many enchantments, had not been able to dislodge her from her pedestal; no, it had only justified her right to be there, and placed her dethronement permanently among the impossibilities. To show how strong her influence over me was, I will observe that long after everybody else's "do-stop-smoking" had ceased to affect me in the slightest degree, Aunt Mary could still stir my torpid conscience into faint signs of life when she touched upon the matter. But all things have their limit in this world. A happy day came at last, when even Aunt Mary's words could no longer move me. I was not merely glad to see that day arrive; I was more than glad--I was grateful; for when its sun had set, the one alloy that was able to mar my enjoyment of my aunt's society was gone. The remainder of her stay with us that winter was in every way a delight. Of course she pleaded with me just as earnestly as ever, after that blessed day, to quit my pernicious habit, but to no purpose whatever; the moment she opened the subject I at once became calmly, peacefully, contentedly indifferent--absolutely, adamantinely indifferent. Consequently the closing weeks of that memorable visit melted away as pleasantly as a dream, they were so freighted for me with tranquil satisfaction. I could not have enjoyed my pet vice more if my gentle tormentor had been a smoker herself, and an advocate of the practice. Well, the sight of her handwriting reminded me that I way getting very hungry to see her again. I easily guessed what I should find in her letter. I opened it. Good! just as I expected; she was coming! Coming this very day, too, and by the morning train; I might expect her any moment.
I said to myself, "I am thoroughly happy and content now. If my most pitiless enemy could appear before me at this moment, I would freely right any wrong I may have done him."
Straightway the door opened, and a shriveled, shabby dwarf entered. He was not more than two feet high. He seemed to be about forty years old. Every feature and every inch of him was a trifle out of shape; and so, while one could not put his finger upon any particular part and say, "This is a conspicuous deformity," the spectator perceived that this little person was a deformity as a whole--a vague, general, evenly blended, nicely adjusted deformity. There was a fox-like cunning in the face and the sharp little eyes, and also alertness and malice. And yet, this vile bit of human rubbish seemed to bear a sort of remote and ill-defined resemblance to me! It was dully perceptible in the mean form, the countenance, and even the clothes, gestures, manner, and attitudes of the creature. He was a farfetched, dim suggestion of a burlesque upon me, a caricature of me in little. One thing about him struck me forcibly and most unpleasantly: he was covered all over with a fuzzy, greenish mold, such as one sometimes sees upon mildewed bread. The sight of it was nauseating. He stepped along with a chipper air, and flung himself into a doll's chair in a very free-and-easy way, without waiting to be asked. He tossed his hat into the waste-basket. He picked up my old chalk pipe from the floor, gave the stem a wipe or two on his knee, filled the bowl from the tobacco-box at his side, and said to me in a tone of pert command: "Gimme a match!"
I blushed to the roots of my hair; partly with indignation, but mainly because it somehow seemed to me that this whole performance was very like an exaggeration of conduct which I myself had sometimes been guilty of in my intercourse with familiar friends--but never, never with strangers, I observed to myself. I wanted to kick the pygmy into the fire, but some incomprehensible sense of being legally and legitimately under his authority forced me to obey his order. He applied the match to the pipe, took a contemplative whiff or two, and remarked, in an irritatingly familiar way:
"Seems to me it's devilish odd weather for this time of year."
I flushed again, and in anger and humiliation as before; for the language was hardly an exaggeration of some that I have uttered in my day, and moreover was delivered in a tone of voice and with an exasperating drawl that had the seeming of a deliberate travesty of my style. Now there is nothing I am quite so sensitive about as a mocking imitation of my drawling infirmity of speech. I spoke up sharply and said:
"Look here, you miserable ash-cat! you will have to give a little more attention to your manners, or I will throw you out of the window!"
see the rest of the story by link above . . .
December 29, 2022
This book was one of the funnier looks at what could happen if a person had no conscience and no sense of self-accountability. It was a book of dark humor that put a wicked grin on my face as I listened. However, there was no suggestion of dealing with accountability to others - of having the police catch up to the character or reproachment from victims or families and friends of victims. A darkly funny book with no basis in anything other than fantasy. That`s ok for whiling away the time and for entertainment.
October 30, 2017
This story covers Twain's thoughts on a conscience, his struggles with it, what he would like to do to it, and what he ends up doing to it. Saying any more about the actual story would be too close to spoilers, and I don't want to put those in here as I think you should just read the thing for yourself. It's very short (about 13 or so pages in a word document), and can be found here.
It's a piece that had me thinking deep thoughts at one moment, then laughing hysterically at the next. Max Zorin in A View to a Kill tells us that intuitive improvisation is the hallmark of genius. I guess that's true enough, but mixing laughter and thoughtfulness the way Twain does could be the hallmark of ingenious writing? I don't know. It's late, and I suspect I'm just talking out of me arse. Regardless, I'm lucid enough to know that I'm earnest in my entreaty that you check this out.
It's a piece that had me thinking deep thoughts at one moment, then laughing hysterically at the next. Max Zorin in A View to a Kill tells us that intuitive improvisation is the hallmark of genius. I guess that's true enough, but mixing laughter and thoughtfulness the way Twain does could be the hallmark of ingenious writing? I don't know. It's late, and I suspect I'm just talking out of me arse. Regardless, I'm lucid enough to know that I'm earnest in my entreaty that you check this out.
July 26, 2008
Fenimore Cooper's Literary Offenses is one of the best didactic hatchet jobs I've come across.
December 24, 2013
Interesting read
November 24, 2020
A matter of conscience
A man confronts his own conscience, obviously on the verge of a major life decision. His conscience, however, seems to have been a plague to him his entire life, not only chastising him for being bad but also for his good deeds. It seems the man is more tormented than guilt ridden, with his dear aunt his last tie to civility. Through the struggle, a great deal of personification is given to the idea of the conscience, whereby a better person is represented by a taller, handsomer totem or spirit. This particular man, presumably a caricature of the author, has a shriveled and ugly spirit dogging his steps. Fighting to the death for freedom of thought and deed, the narrator seeks to seal his own fate. Twain digs into the idea that a remorseless person is left free to hurt as many as he likes, however he doesn't leave us reassured that remorse can stop us - indeed, the more chastised the narrator feels, the closer he comes to ridding himself of his conscience for good. Twain isn't dangling hope here, only warning, but in such a clever way.
A man confronts his own conscience, obviously on the verge of a major life decision. His conscience, however, seems to have been a plague to him his entire life, not only chastising him for being bad but also for his good deeds. It seems the man is more tormented than guilt ridden, with his dear aunt his last tie to civility. Through the struggle, a great deal of personification is given to the idea of the conscience, whereby a better person is represented by a taller, handsomer totem or spirit. This particular man, presumably a caricature of the author, has a shriveled and ugly spirit dogging his steps. Fighting to the death for freedom of thought and deed, the narrator seeks to seal his own fate. Twain digs into the idea that a remorseless person is left free to hurt as many as he likes, however he doesn't leave us reassured that remorse can stop us - indeed, the more chastised the narrator feels, the closer he comes to ridding himself of his conscience for good. Twain isn't dangling hope here, only warning, but in such a clever way.
February 5, 2020
A man wonders why he always feels bad for immoral acts that he commits and so comes to see that this is due to his conscience. At some point his conscience materializes in some fashion and he decides to kill it for making him feel bad. Without his conscience, the man runs wild through Connecticut, murdering and rampaging, and so forth.
The conscience is of course not something apart from us, but it is intrinsically within us. Conscience comes from the Latin, literally meaning "with knowledge" in which the knowledge refers to the understanding of our intrinsic knowledge of the moral law that God has given each one of us. It is why we even think murder for gain is a horrible crime for us, but normal for Animals. Why theft and rape is wrong for us, but how nature progresses and repopulates for animals. There is something distinct about our knowledge of good and evil and why it has shaped history and society from the beginning.
The conscience is of course not something apart from us, but it is intrinsically within us. Conscience comes from the Latin, literally meaning "with knowledge" in which the knowledge refers to the understanding of our intrinsic knowledge of the moral law that God has given each one of us. It is why we even think murder for gain is a horrible crime for us, but normal for Animals. Why theft and rape is wrong for us, but how nature progresses and repopulates for animals. There is something distinct about our knowledge of good and evil and why it has shaped history and society from the beginning.
January 16, 2025
This story felt as though it was written by somebody in the progressive era. A form of sci fi is evident in Twain's penmanship that also relates to current issues that were embedded in American Culture. It was a fair read, as it progressed it became easier to finish and understand, as well as each setup having payoff.
Although Twain was set in an era that is not as streamlined in its language as modern english has become, it wasn't difficult to comprehend what was being described. Though one critique, the ending feels a little too abrupt and without much explanation. Overall, it was one of the better progressivist pieces of literature I have read.
Although Twain was set in an era that is not as streamlined in its language as modern english has become, it wasn't difficult to comprehend what was being described. Though one critique, the ending feels a little too abrupt and without much explanation. Overall, it was one of the better progressivist pieces of literature I have read.
December 14, 2020
The introductory paragraphs of the book about his aunt made no sense at all - that is, until you get to the end. I was surprisingly pleased with the direction the story took.
Sardonic and somewhat dark, it was a refreshing read on the relationship of humans and their conscience.
Sardonic and somewhat dark, it was a refreshing read on the relationship of humans and their conscience.
September 12, 2018
Reading some of Twain's short stories, I cannot help thinking he had been fighting his inner demons for some time, and near the the end of his life, they had won.
August 7, 2021
Funny, quick, and also thought-provoking. Also featured in “Masterpieces of Fantasy and Wonder” by David Hartwell.
October 18, 2021
4.5 out of 5
August 3, 2023
Funny in a dark twisted sense- a story about the man who encounters and kills his conscience.
November 9, 2025
Such a unique and masterful book!
May 2, 2012
Another from Twain, short, looks like, on the Kindle, titled:
The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut
Begins:
I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me. It was Aunt Mary's...
Onward and upward.
update, finished, 5/2/12, Wednesday morning, 11:31 a.m. e.s.t.....looks like the rain has stopped
yeah, okay, so this two-foot dwarf enters the room where the narrator, unnamed, Twain presumably, is smoking a cigar and catches it for smoking...this seems to a trend lately...beginning with The Idiot from Fyodor Dostoyevsky...all those do-gooders throwing dogs from trains. One day we'll stop and look back and they'll all be running along with a brick in mouth.
so the two-foot dwarf if the narrator's Conscience, and they have it out. A person's Conscience grows or shrinks in proportion to the other workings of the heart and mind.
Aunt Mary comes in and gives the narrator what for, the the narrator's Conscience, previously immune to the attempts on its life by the narrator, succumbs as Mary chastises the narrator for a number of crimes and misdemeanors.
A short happy read...or not so...considering the ending, somewhat Dahmer-ish....eeek!
The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut
Begins:
I was feeling blithe, almost jocund. I put a match to my cigar, and just then the morning's mail was handed in. The first superscription I glanced at was in a handwriting that sent a thrill of pleasure through and through me. It was Aunt Mary's...
Onward and upward.
update, finished, 5/2/12, Wednesday morning, 11:31 a.m. e.s.t.....looks like the rain has stopped
yeah, okay, so this two-foot dwarf enters the room where the narrator, unnamed, Twain presumably, is smoking a cigar and catches it for smoking...this seems to a trend lately...beginning with The Idiot from Fyodor Dostoyevsky...all those do-gooders throwing dogs from trains. One day we'll stop and look back and they'll all be running along with a brick in mouth.
so the two-foot dwarf if the narrator's Conscience, and they have it out. A person's Conscience grows or shrinks in proportion to the other workings of the heart and mind.
Aunt Mary comes in and gives the narrator what for, the the narrator's Conscience, previously immune to the attempts on its life by the narrator, succumbs as Mary chastises the narrator for a number of crimes and misdemeanors.
A short happy read...or not so...considering the ending, somewhat Dahmer-ish....eeek!
November 3, 2015
I very much enjoyed this short story. For much of it, I wondered what the point was, but the ending was absolutely hilarious, in my humble opinion. I find Twain to be quite funny when he wants to be, and quite the story writer otherwise. This is another short story in my current short story foray, and I highly recommend reading or listening to it. The Audible version (which is what I did) was done quite well. This particular story might even be better in audiobook format instead of print, because of the two main characters, but I also didn't read it.
April 22, 2008
"What did you do today, Mark Twain?"
"Me? Oh, I just kind of wrote something that's going to be fucking dead-on hilarious for as long as people understand the English language. I mean it wasn't a big...thing, really. I don't even hardly have to try anymore. For real, I wrote the whole thing while I soaked in the bathtub with a cigar. I didn't even finish the cigar before I was done with the story. No, I'm telling you the god's honest truth. The water was still hot when I got out. Yep."
"Me? Oh, I just kind of wrote something that's going to be fucking dead-on hilarious for as long as people understand the English language. I mean it wasn't a big...thing, really. I don't even hardly have to try anymore. For real, I wrote the whole thing while I soaked in the bathtub with a cigar. I didn't even finish the cigar before I was done with the story. No, I'm telling you the god's honest truth. The water was still hot when I got out. Yep."
September 30, 2015
The book comprises one essay (literary offences) and one short story (carnival of crime). Literary offences is basically a review of Cooper's series of books. Twain, (in the words of Mental Floss magazine), 'tears Cooper a new one'. If someone ever wrote a review like that for my book, I'd change my name, get plastic surgery, burn my ancestral home and emigrate to Antarctica.
The other story is short and disturbing and...I confess I just didn't get it.
The other story is short and disturbing and...I confess I just didn't get it.
November 3, 2012
I liked the depiction of Consciences as physical beings that malevolently make men feel guilty for their own joy. I also liked touches about the Conscience becoming larger or smaller based on the heed paid to it.
November 26, 2013
Wonderfully clever, as all Twain's humor is. More than that, the astute observation of the workings and value of conscience is impressive and strikes me as accurate. I may have to read more Twain if this story is any indication of his skill.
May 31, 2011
Silly but cute
October 3, 2015
I am sad that I didn't learn how sarcastic Twain was until I was 50+. Great short story about the conscience.
Displaying 1 - 24 of 24 reviews