{"id":60,"date":"2025-06-17T15:34:24","date_gmt":"2025-06-17T15:34:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.wpenginepowered.com\/?p=60"},"modified":"2025-10-31T15:14:33","modified_gmt":"2025-10-31T15:14:33","slug":"a-literary-nightmare-or-punch-brothers-punch-atlantic-monthly-1876","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/?p=60","title":{"rendered":"A Literary Nightmare (or “Punch, Brothers, Punch”)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Clemens\u2019s short piece \u201cA Literary Nightmare\u201d was published in <\/em>The Atlantic Monthly for February 1876. Along with its brainworm premise, it describes a walk to a wooden observation tower at the top of Talcott Mountain, about nine miles from Hartford, with his close friend Rev. Joseph Twichell (\u201cRev. Mr. \u2014\u2014\u2014\u201d here). The two friends took this walk frequently. It is sometimes published with the title \u201cPunch, Brothers, Punch.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

A Literary Nightmare<\/strong>
\nby Mark Twain<\/strong><\/h2>\n

Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?<\/p>\n

Conductor, when you receive a fare,<\/p>\n

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!<\/p>\n

A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,<\/p>\n

A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,<\/p>\n

A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,<\/p>\n

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!<\/p>\n

CHORUS<\/p>\n

Punch, brothers! punch with care!<\/p>\n

Punch in the presence of the passenjare!<\/p>\n

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day\u2019s work the day before\u2014thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, \u201cPunch in the presence of the passenjare.\u201d I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, \u201cA blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,\u201d and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day\u2019s work was ruined\u2014I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except \u201cPunch! punch in the presence of the passenjare.\u201d By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings\u2014\u201dPunch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!\u201d<\/p>\n

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014, to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant. He stared at me, but asked no questions. We started. Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014 talked, talked, talked as is his wont. I said nothing; I heard nothing. At the end of a mile, Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014 said \u201cMark, are you sick? I never saw a man look so haggard and worn and absent-minded. Say something, do!\u201d<\/p>\n

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said: \u201cPunch brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!\u201d<\/p>\n

My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, then said:<\/p>\n

\u201cI do not think I get your drift, Mark. There does not seem to be any relevancy in what you have said, certainly nothing sad; and yet\u2014maybe it was the way you said the words\u2014I never heard anything that sounded so pathetic. What is\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

But I heard no more. I was already far away with my pitiless, heartbreaking \u201cblue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, pink trip slip for a three-cent fare; punch in the presence of the passenjare.\u201d I do not know what occurred during the other nine miles. However, all of a sudden Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014 laid his hand on my shoulder and shouted:<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, wake up! wake up! wake up! Don\u2019t sleep all day! Here we are at the Tower, man! I have talked myself deaf and dumb and blind, and never got a response. Just look at this magnificent autumn landscape! Look at it! look at it! Feast your eye on it! You have traveled; you have seen boasted landscapes elsewhere. Come, now, deliver an honest opinion. What do you say to this?\u201d<\/p>\n

I sighed wearily; and murmured:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cA buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare, punch in the presence of the passenjare.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rev. Mr. \u2014\u2014\u2014 stood there, very grave, full of concern, apparently, and looked long at me; then he said:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cMark, there is something about this that I cannot understand. Those are about the same words you said before; there does not seem to be anything in them, and yet they nearly break my heart when you say them. Punch in the\u2014how is it they go?\u201d<\/p>\n

I began at the beginning and repeated all the lines.<\/p>\n

My friend\u2019s face lighted with interest. He said:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy, what a captivating jingle it is! It is almost music. It flows along so nicely. I have nearly caught the rhymes myself. Say them over just once more, and then I\u2019ll have them, sure.\u201d<\/p>\n

I said them over. Then Mr. \u2014\u2014\u2014 said them. He made one little mistake, which I corrected. The next time and the next he got them right. Now a great burden seemed to tumble from my shoulders. That torturing jingle departed out of my brain, and a grateful sense of rest and peace descended upon me. I was light-hearted enough to sing; and I did sing for half an hour, straight along, as we went jogging homeward. Then my freed tongue found blessed speech again, and the pent talk of many a weary hour began to gush and flow. It flowed on and on, joyously, jubilantly, until the fountain was empty and dry. As I wrung my friend\u2019s hand at parting, I said:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cHaven\u2019t we had a royal good time! But now I remember, you haven\u2019t said a word for two hours. Come, come, out with something!\u201d<\/p>\n

The Rev. Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014 turned a lack-lustre eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, and said, without animation, without apparent consciousness:<\/p>\n

\u201cPunch, brothers, punch with care! Punch in the presence of the passenjare!\u201d<\/p>\n

A pang shot through me as I said to myself, \u201cPoor fellow, poor fellow! he has got it, now.\u201d<\/p>\n

I did not see Mr.\u2014\u2014\u2014 for two or three days after that. Then, on Tuesday evening, he staggered into my presence and sank dejectedly into a seat. He was pale, worn; he was a wreck. He lifted his faded eyes to my face and said:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, Mark, it was a ruinous investment that I made in those heartless rhymes. They have ridden me like a nightmare, day and night, hour after hour, to this very moment. Since I saw you I have suffered the torments of the lost. Saturday evening I had a sudden call, by telegraph, and took the night train for Boston. The occasion was the death of a valued old friend who had requested that I should preach his funeral sermon. I took my seat in the cars and set myself to framing the discourse. But I never got beyond the opening paragraph; for then the train started and the car-wheels began their \u2018clack, clack-clack-clack-clack! clack-clack!\u2014clack-clack-clack!\u2019 and right away those odious rhymes fitted themselves to that accompaniment. For an hour I sat there and set a syllable of those rhymes to every separate and distinct clack the car-wheels made. Why, I was as fagged out, then, as if I had been chopping wood all day. My skull was splitting with headache. It seemed to me that I must go mad if I sat there any longer; so I undressed and went to bed. I stretched myself out in my berth, and\u2014well, you know what the result was. The thing went right along, just the same. \u2018Clack-clack clack, a blue trip slip, clack-clack-clack, for an eight-cent fare; clack-clack-clack, a buff trip slip, clack clack-clack, for a six-cent fare, and so on, and so on, and so on punch in the presence of the passenjare!\u2019 Sleep? Not a single wink! I was almost a lunatic when I got to Boston. Don\u2019t ask me about the funeral. I did the best I could, but every solemn individual sentence was meshed and tangled and woven in and out with \u2018Punch, brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenjare.\u2019 And the most distressing thing was that my delivery dropped into the undulating rhythm of those pulsing rhymes, and I could actually catch absent-minded people nodding time to the swing of it with their stupid heads. And, Mark, you may believe it or not, but before I got through the entire assemblage were placidly bobbing their heads in solemn unison, mourners, undertaker, and all. The moment I had finished, I fled to the anteroom in a state bordering on frenzy. Of course it would be my luck to find a sorrowing and aged maiden aunt of the deceased there, who had arrived from Springfield too late to get into the church. She began to sob, and said:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Oh, oh, he is gone, he is gone, and I didn\u2019t see him before he died!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Yes!\u2019 I said, \u2018he is gone, he is gone, he is gone\u2014oh, will this suffering never cease!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018You loved him, then! Oh, you too loved him!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Loved him! Loved who?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Why, my poor George! my poor nephew!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Oh\u2014him! Yes\u2014oh, yes, yes. Certainly\u2014certainly. Punch\u2014punch\u2014oh, this misery will kill me!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Bless you! bless you, sir, for these sweet words! I, too, suffer in this dear loss. Were you present during his last moments?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Yes. I\u2014whose last moments?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018His. The dear departed\u2019s.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Yes! Oh, yes\u2014yes\u2014yes! I suppose so, I think so, I don\u2019t know! Oh, certainly\u2014I was there\u2014I was there!\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Oh, what a privilege! what a precious privilege! And his last words\u2014oh, tell me, tell me his last words! What did he say?\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018He said\u2014he said\u2014oh, my head, my head, my head! He said\u2014he said\u2014he never said anything but Punch, punch, punch in the presence of the passenjare! Oh, leave me, madam! In the name of all that is generous, leave me to my madness, my misery, my despair!\u2014a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare, a pink trip slip for a three-cent fare\u2014endu\u2014rance can no fur\u2014ther go!\u2014PUNCH in the presence of the passenjare!\u201d<\/p>\n

My friend\u2019s hopeless eyes rested upon mine a pregnant minute, and then he said impressively:\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cMark, you do not say anything. You do not offer me any hope. But, ah me, it is just as well\u2014it is just as well. You could not do me any good. The time has long gone by when words could comfort me. Something tells me that my tongue is doomed to wag forever to the jigger of that remorseless jingle. There\u2014there it is coming on me again: a blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

Thus murmuring faint and fainter, my friend sank into a peaceful trance and forgot his sufferings in a blessed respite.<\/p>\n

How did I finally save him from an asylum? I took him to a neighboring university and made him discharge the burden of his persecuting rhymes into the eager ears of the poor, unthinking students. How is it with them, now? The result is too sad to tell. Why did I write this article? It was for a worthy, even a noble, purpose. It was to warn you, reader, if you should came across those merciless rhymes, to avoid them\u2014avoid them as you would a pestilence!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[END OF SELECTION]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Clemens\u2019s short piece \u201cA Literary Nightmare\u201d was published in The Atlantic Monthly for February 1876. Along with its brainworm premise, it describes a walk to a wooden observation tower at the top of Talcott Mountain, about nine miles from Hartford, with his close friend Rev. Joseph Twichell (\u201cRev. Mr. \u2014\u2014\u2014\u201d here). The two friends took … Continue reading A Literary Nightmare (or “Punch, Brothers, Punch”)<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[83,5],"tags":[62,47,63],"class_list":["post-60","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-mark-twain","category-samuel-l-clemens","tag-friendship","tag-hartford-setting","tag-humor"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=60"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=60"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=60"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/hartfordlit.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=60"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}