January 13 Wednesday – Sam gave his “Vandals” lecture in the Methodist Episcopal Church in Ottawa, Illinois. The reviews were mixed but Sam began a letter to Livy that called it a “botch.”
My Dearest Livy—
Another botch of a lecture!—even worse than Elmira, I think. And it was such a pity—for we had a beautiful church entirely full of handsome, well-dressed, intellectual ladies & gentlemen. They say I didn’t botch it, but I should think I ought to know. I closed with a fervent apology for my failure, just as I did in Elmira—& the apology was the only thing in the lecture that had any life or any feeling in it. It cuts me to the very quick to make a failure. I did feel so ashamed of myself. I even distressed the Committee—I touched their hearts with my genuine suffering, & real good fellows as they are, they came up to my room to comfort me. The failure was chiefly owing to an idiot president, who insisted on introducing me while the people were still pouring in,—& they kept on coming in till one-fourth of the lecture had been delivered to an audience who were exclusive[ly] engaged in watching the newcomers to their seats—it seemed that I never would get their attention. I grew so exasperated, at last, that I shouted to the door keeper to close the doors & not open them again on any account. But my confidence was gone, the church was harder to speak in than any empty barrel would have been, I was angry, wearied to death with travel, & I just hobbled miserably through, apologized, bade the house good-night, & then gave the President a piece of my mind, without any butter or sugar on it. And now I have to pray for forgiveness for these things—& unprepared, Livy, for the bitterness is not all out of my bad, foolish heart yet. Took tea with Mr. Lewis—like him ever so much. If you remember, he is like Twichell—you are acquainted with him as soon as you take him by the hand. It would take some time to get acquainted with his wife, though. Lost my baggage somewhere, day-before yesterday—heard of it today, but can’t get it before I arrive in Toledo—am lecturing in my bob-tail coat & that makes me feel awkward & uncomfortable before an audience. Livy, dear, I am instructed to appear & lecture in New York City Feb. 15. It is the most aggravating thing. I have to miss the re-union after all, I suppose, for no doubt I shall have to go on lecturing just the same, after that. But you must write me all that the happy re-unionists do & say, & I shall be with you all in spirit, at least, if not in the flesh. And I shall keep a sharp look-out & see if I can’t get a day or two to myself between Jan. 22 & Feb. 13, because I do so long to see you, Livy dear. So far there are only five applications in my agent’s hands for lectures during that interval, I think. You were right not to send the picture if it slandered you like the other, but it does seem to me sometimes that any new picture of you would be a comfort to me—one that had seen your own face lately. The old photograph is a dear old picture to me, & I love it; but still it isn’t as beautiful as you are, Livy, & I want a picture that is. I am not so absurd as to love you simply for your beauty—I trust you know that well enough—but I do love your beauty, & am naturally proud of it & I don’t want the picture to mar it. Poor Lily Hitchcock!—see how they talk about her in print—just as generous & warm-hearted a girl as you ever saw, Livy, & her mother is such a rare gem of a woman. The family are old, old friends of mine & I think ever so much of them. That girl, many & many & many a time, has waited till nearly noon to breakfast with me, when we all lived at the Occidental Hotel & I was on a morning paper & could not go to bed till 2 or 3 in the morning. She is a brilliant talker. They live half of every year in Paris—& the hearts that rascal has broken, on both sides of the water! It always seemed funny to me, that she & I could be friends, but we were—I suppose it was because under all her wild & repulsive foolery, that warm heart of hers would show. When I saw the family in Paris, Lily had just delivered the mitten to a wealthy Italian Count, at her mother’s request (Mrs. H. said Lily loved him,)—but ah me! it was only going from bad to worse to jilt anybody to marry Howard Coit. I know him, a dissipated spendthrift, son of a deceased, wealthy eminent physician, a most worthy man. Howard “went through” the property in an incredibly short time. And this poor little numbscull Lily’s last act was to mortgage her property for $20,000, gold, & give the money to that calf. He will squander it in six months if he has not mended greatly. {The above was told me in Chicago by a Confidante of Lily’s who was simply under promise to keep the matter from her parents.} Until that moment I said the whole affair must be untrue, because, as detestable as some of Lily’s freaks were she could not be capable of deceiving her mother & father & marrying secretly. And to tell the plain truth I don’t really believe it yet. She is an awful girl (the newspaper article is written by somebody who knows whom he is talking about), but she isn’t that awful. She moves in the best society in San F. Does that horrify you, Livy? But remember, there never was so much as a whisper against her good name. I am so sorry for that girl, & so very, very sorry for her good kind mother. I hold both of them in happy remembrance always—for they were your brave, outspoken sort of friends, & just as loyal to you behind your back as before your face. Well—I simply meant to enclose the slip, with a line of explanation—I think I rather overdid it. Tell Miss Lewis that I think the answer is “Considerable.” What is her notion? I have told her brother all I knew about her, & a mighty sight that I didn’t know. I always like to give good measure.

The passage from the “exquisite” struck me at the time as a vivid echo of my own sentiments—I knew it would be of yours, without your mentioning it, dear Livy. No, you wouldn’t ask me to go to prayer meeting if you fancied I was tired, & I am sure I would always try to be as thoughtful of you, & as watchful for your happiness. I think our very chiefest pleasure would (WILL, Livy,) consist in planning & scheming each for the other’s happiness. Livy, I cannot conceive of such a thing as my failing in deference to you, either now or when you are my wife, (for I will not think of your being any one else’s wife, Livy,) or ever conducting myself toward you, in a manner unbecoming to your dignity. Why did you talk of not sending “this half sheet?” It delighted me more than I can tell. I like all you say about marriage, for it shows that you appreciate the tremendous step it is, & are looking at it in all its parts, & not to simply seek flaws in it. After some little delay, I am back & ready to go on answering your letter—but alas! it is i AM, I am tired to death & so sleepy—And so I press this loving kiss upon your lips, my darling Livy & waft you a fond Good-night. Sam. L. C. [MTL 3: 30-1].
Note: Sam enclosed “An Eccentric California Belle,” an article which further described Eliza (Lillie) Wychie Hitchcock (1843-1929). See source. Mr. Lewis was Livy’s maternal uncle.
Sam would later expound against lecturing in a church, where he said it was next to impossible to make people laugh.