MARK TWAIN, A BIOGRAPHY

By Albert Bigelow Paine

VOLUME III, Part 2: 1907-1910

CCLVI

HONORS FROM OXFORD

Clemens made a brief trip to Bermuda during the winter, taking Twichellalong; their first return to the island since the trip when they hadpromised to come back so soon-nearly thirty years before. They had beencomparatively young men then. They were old now, but they found thegreen island as fresh and full of bloom as ever. They did not find theirold landlady; they could not even remember her name at first, and thenTwichell recalled that it was the same as an author of certainschoolbooks in his youth, and Clemens promptly said, "Kirkham's Grammar. "Kirkham was truly the name, and they went to find her; but she was dead, and the daughter, who had been a young girl in that earlier time, reignedin her stead and entertained the successors of her mother's guests. Theywalked and drove about the island, and it was like taking up again along-discontinued book and reading another chapter of the same tale. Itgave Mark Twain a fresh interest in Bermuda, one which he did not allowto fade again. 

Later in the year (March, 1907) I also made a journey; it having beenagreed that I should take a trip to the Mississippi and to the Pacificcoast to see those old friends of Mark Twain's who were so rapidlypassing away. John Briggs was still alive, and other Hannibalschoolmates; also Joe Goodman and Steve Gillis, and a few more of theearly pioneers--all eminently worth seeing in the matter of such work asI had in hand. The billiard games would be interrupted; but whateverreluctance to the plan there may have been on that account was put asidein view of prospective benefits. Clemens, in fact, seemed to derive joyfrom the thought that he was commissioning a kind of personal emissary tohis old comrades, and provided me with a letter of credentials. 

It was a long, successful trip that I made, and it was undertaken nonetoo soon. John Briggs, a gentle-hearted man, was already entering thevalley of the shadow as he talked to me by his fire one memorableafternoon, and reviewed the pranks of those days along the river and inthe cave and on Holliday's Hill. I think it was six weeks later that hedied; and there were others of that scattering procession who did notreach the end of the year. Joe Goodman, still full of vigor (in 1912), journeyed with me to the green and dreamy solitudes of Jackass Hill tosee Steve and Jim Gillis, and that was an unforgetable Sunday when SteveGillis, an invalid, but with the fire still in his eyes and speech, satup on his couch in his little cabin in that Arcadian stillness and toldold tales and adventures. When I left he said:

"Tell Sam I'm going to die pretty soon, but that I love him; that I'veloved him all my life, and I'll love him till I die. This is the lastword I'll ever send to him. " Jim Gillis, down in Sonora, was alreadylying at the point of death, and so for him the visit was too late, though he was able to receive a message from his ancient mining partner, and to send back a parting word. 

I returned by way of New Orleans and the Mississippi River, for I wishedto follow that abandoned water highway, and to visit its presidinggenius, Horace Bixby, --[He died August 2, 1912, at the age of 86]--stillalive and in service as pilot of the government snagboat, hisheadquarters at St. Louis. 

Coming up the river on one of the old passenger steam boats that stillexist, I noticed in a paper which came aboard that Mark Twain was toreceive from Oxford University the literary doctor's degree. There hadbeen no hint of this when I came away, and it seemed rather too suddenand too good to be true. That the little barefoot lad that had playedalong the river-banks at Hannibal, and received such meager advantages inthe way of schooling--whose highest ambition had been to pilot such acraft as this one--was about to be crowned by the world's greatestinstitution of learning, to receive the highest recognition forachievement in the world of letters, was a thing which would not belikely to happen outside of a fairy tale. 

Returning to New York, I ran out to Tuxedo, where he had taken a home forthe summer (for it was already May), and walking along the shaded pathsof that beautiful suburban park, he told me what he knew of the Oxfordmatter. 

Moberly Bell, of the London Times, had been over in April, and soon afterhis return to England there had come word of the proposed honor. Clemensprivately and openly (to Bell) attributed it largely to his influence. Hewrote to him:

 DEAR MR. BELL, --Your hand is in it & you have my best thanks. Although I wouldn't cross an ocean again for the price of the ship that carried me I am glad to do it for an Oxford degree. I shall plan to sail for England a shade before the middle of June, so that I can have a few days in London before the 26th. 

A day or two later, when the time for sailing had been arranged, heovertook his letter with a cable:

 I perceive your hand in it. You have my best thanks. Sail on Minneapolis June 8th. Due in Southampton ten days later. 

Clemens said that his first word of the matter had been a newspapercablegram, and that he had been doubtful concerning it until a cablegramto himself had confirmed it. 

"I never expected to cross the water again, " he said; "but I would bewilling to journey to Mars for that Oxford degree. "

He put the matter aside then, and fell to talking of Jim Gillis and theothers I had visited, dwelling especially on Gillis's astonishing facultyfor improvising romances, recalling how he had stood with his back to thefire weaving his endless, grotesque yarns, with no other guide than hisfancy. It was a long, happy walk we had, though rather a sad one in itsmemories; and he seemed that day, in a sense, to close the gate of thoseearly scenes behind him, for he seldom referred to them afterward. 

He was back at 21 Fifth Avenue presently, arranging for his voyage. Meantime, cable invitations of every sort were pouring in, from this andthat society and dignitary; invitations to dinners and ceremonials, andwhat not, and it was clear enough that his English sojourn was to be abusy one. He had hoped to avoid this, and began by declining all but twoinvitations--a dinner-party given by Ambassador Whitelaw Reid and aluncheon proposed by the "Pilgrims. " But it became clear that this wouldnot do. England was not going to confer its greatest collegiate honorwithout being permitted to pay its wider and more popular tribute. 

Clemens engaged a special secretary for the trip--Mr. Ralph W. Ashcroft, a young Englishman familiar with London life. They sailed on the 8th ofJune, by a curious coincidence exactly forty years from the day he hadsailed on the Quaker City to win his great fame. I went with him to theship. His first elation had passed by this time, and he seemed a littlesad, remembering, I think, the wife who would have enjoyed this honorwith him but could not share it now. 

CCLVII

A TRUE ENGLISH WELCOME

Mark Twain's trip across the Atlantic would seem to have been a pleasantone. The Minneapolis is a fine, big ship, and there was plenty ofcompany. Prof. Archibald Henderson, Bernard Shaw's biographer, wasaboard;--[Professor Henderson has since then published a volume on MarkTwain-an interesting commentary on his writings--mainly from thesociological point of view. ]--also President Patton, of the PrincetonTheological Seminary; a well-known cartoonist, Richards, and some veryattractive young people--school-girls in particular, such as all throughhis life had appealed to Mark Twain. Indeed, in his later life they madea stronger appeal than ever. The years had robbed him of his own littleflock, and always he was trying to replace them. Once he said:

"During those years after my wife's death I was washing about on aforlorn sea of banquets and speech-making in high and holy causes, andthese things furnished me intellectual cheer, and entertainment; but theygot at my heart for an evening only, then left it dry and dusty. I hadreached the grandfather stage of life without grandchildren, so I beganto adopt some. "

He adopted several on that journey to England and on the return voyage, and he kept on adopting others during the rest of his life. Thesecompanionships became one of the happiest aspects of his final days, aswe shall see by and by. 

There were entertainments on the ship, one of them given for the benefitof the Seamen's Orphanage. One of his adopted granddaughters--"Charley"he called her--played a violin solo and Clemens made a speech. Later hisautographs were sold at auction. Dr. Patton was auctioneer, and oneautographed postal card brought twenty-five dollars, which is perhaps therecord price for a single Mark Twain signature. He wore his white suiton this occasion, and in the course of his speech referred to it. Hetold first of the many defects in his behavior, and how members of hishousehold had always tried to keep him straight. The children, he said, had fallen into the habit of calling it "dusting papa off. " Then he wenton:

 When my daughter came to see me off last Saturday at the boat she slipped a note in my hand and said, "Read it when you get aboard the ship. " I didn't think of it again until day before yesterday, and it was a "dusting off. " And if I carry out all the instructions that I got there I shall be more celebrated in England for my behavior than for anything else. I got instructions how to act on every occasion. She underscored "Now, don't you wear white clothes on ship or on shore until you get back, " and I intended to obey. I have been used to obeying my family all my life, but I wore the white clothes to-night because the trunk that has the dark clothes in it is in the cellar. I am not apologizing for the white clothes; I am only apologizing to my daughter for not obeying her. 

He received a great welcome when the ship arrived at Tilbury. A throngof rapid-fire reporters and photographers immediately surrounded him, andwhen he left the ship the stevedores gave him a round of cheers. It wasthe beginning of that almost unheard-of demonstration of affection andhonor which never for a moment ceased, but augmented from day to dayduring the four weeks of his English sojourn. 

In a dictation following his return, Mark Twain said:

 Who began it? The very people of all people in the world whom I would have chosen: a hundred men of my own class--grimy sons of labor, the real builders of empires and civilizations, the stevedores! They stood in a body on the dock and charged their masculine lungs, and gave me a welcome which went to the marrow of me. 

J. Y. W. MacAlister was at the St. Pancras railway station to meet him, and among others on the platform was Bernard Shaw, who had come down tomeet Professor Henderson. Clemens and Shaw were presented, and meteagerly, for each greatly admired the other. A throng gathered. MarkTwain was extricated at last, and hurried away to his apartments atBrown's Hotel, "a placid, subdued, homelike, old-fashioned English inn, "he called it, "well known to me years ago, a blessed retreat of a sortnow rare in England, and becoming rarer every year. "

But Brown's was not placid and subdued during his stay. The Londonnewspapers declared that Mark Twain's arrival had turned Brown's not onlyinto a royal court, but a post-office--that the procession of visitorsand the bundles of mail fully warranted this statement. It was, in fact, an experience which surpassed in general magnitude and magnificenceanything he had hitherto known. His former London visits, beginning withthat of 1872, had been distinguished by high attentions, but all of themcombined could not equal this. When England decides to get up anovation, her people are not to be outdone even by the lavish Americans. An assistant secretary had to be engaged immediately, and it sometimesrequired from sixteen to twenty hours a day for two skilled and busy mento receive callers and reduce the pile of correspondence. 

A pile of invitations had already accumulated, and others flowed in. LadyStanley, widow of Henry M. Stanley, wrote:

 You know I want to see you and join right hand to right hand. I must see your dear face again . . . . You will have no peace, rest, or leisure during your stay in London, and you will end by hating human beings. Let me come before you feel that way. 

Mary Cholmondeley, the author of Red Pottage, niece of that lovableReginald Cholmondeley, and herself an old friend, sent greetings andurgent invitations. Archdeacon Wilberforce wrote:

 I have just been preaching about your indictment of that scoundrel king of the Belgians and telling my people to buy the book. I am only a humble item among the very many who offer you a cordial welcome in England, but we long to see you again, and I should like to change hats with you again. Do you remember?

The Athenaeum, the Garrick, and a dozen other London clubs hadanticipated his arrival with cards of honorary membership for the periodof his stay. Every leading photographer had put in a claim for sittings. It was such a reception as Charles Dickens had received in America in1842, and again in 1867. A London paper likened it to Voltaire's returnto Paris in 1778, when France went mad over him. There is simply nolimit to English affection and, hospitality once aroused. Clemens wrote:

 Surely such weeks as this must be very rare in this world: I had seen nothing like them before; I shall see nothing approaching them again!

Sir Thomas Lipton and Bram Stoker, old friends, were among the first topresent themselves, and there was no break in the line of callers. 

Clemens's resolutions for secluding himself were swept away. On the verynext morning following his arrival he breakfasted with J. HennikerHeaton, father of International Penny Postage, at the Bath Club, justacross Dover Street from Brown's. He lunched at the Ritz with MarjorieBowen and Miss Bisland. In the afternoon he sat for photographs atBarnett's, and made one or two calls. He could no more resist thesethings than a debutante in her first season. 

He was breakfasting again with Heaton next morning; lunching with "Toby, M. P. , " and Mrs. Lucy; and having tea with Lady Stanley in the afternoon, and being elaborately dined next day at Dorchester House by Ambassadorand Mrs. Reid. These were all old and tried friends. He was not astranger among them, he said; he was at home. Alfred Austin, ConanDoyle, Anthony Hope, Alma Tadema, E. A. Abbey, Edmund Goss, GeorgeSmalley, Sir Norman Lockyer, Henry W. Lucy, Sidney Brooks, and BramStoker were among those at Dorchester House--all old comrades, as weremany of the other guests. 

"I knew fully half of those present, " he said afterward. 

Mark Twain's bursting upon London society naturally was made the most ofby the London papers, and all his movements were tabulated andelaborated, and when there was any opportunity for humor in the situationit was not left unimproved. The celebrated Ascot racing-cup was stolenjust at the time of his arrival, and the papers suggestively mingledtheir head-lines, "Mark Twain Arrives: Ascot Cup Stolen, " and kept thejoke going in one form or another. Certain state jewels and otherregalia also disappeared during his stay, and the news of theseburglaries was reported in suspicious juxtaposition with the news of MarkTwain's doings. 

English reporters adopted American habits for the occasion, and inventedor embellished when the demand for a new sensation was urgent. Once, when following the custom of the place, he descended the hotel elevatorin a perfectly proper and heavy brown bath robe, and stepped acrossnarrow Dover Street to the Bath Club, the papers flamed next day with thestory that Mark Twain had wandered about the lobby of Brown's andpromenaded Dover Street in a sky-blue bath robe attracting wideattention. 

Clara Clemens, across the ocean, was naturally a trifle disturbed by suchreports, and cabled this delicate "dusting off":

"Much worried. Remember proprieties. "

To which he answered:

"They all pattern after me, " a reply to the last degree characteristic. 

It was on the fourth day after his arrival, June 22d, that he attendedthe King's garden-party at Windsor Castle. There were eighty-fivehundred guests at the King's party, and if we may judge from the Londonnewspapers, Mark Twain was quite as much a figure in that great throng asany member of the royal family. His presentation to the King and theQueen is set down as an especially notable incident, and theirconversation is quite fully given. Clemens himself reported:

 His Majesty was very courteous. In the course of the conversation I reminded him of an episode of fifteen years ago, when I had the honor to walk a mile with him when he was taking the waters at Homburg, in Germany. I said that I had often told about that episode, and that whenever I was the historian I made good history of it and it was worth listening to, but that it had found its way into print once or twice in unauthentic ways and was badly damaged thereby. I said I should like to go on repeating this history, but that I should be quite fair and reasonably honest, and while I should probably never tell it twice in the same way I should at least never allow it to deteriorate in my hands. His Majesty intimated his willingness that I should continue to disseminate that piece of history; and he added a compliment, saying that he knew good and sound history would not suffer at my hands, and that if this good and sound history needed any improvement beyond the facts he would trust me to furnish that improvement. 

 I think it is not an exaggeration to say that the Queen looked as young and beautiful as she did thirty-five years ago when I saw her first. I did not say this to her, because I learned long ago never to say the obvious thing, but leave the obvious thing to commonplace and inexperienced people to say. That she still looked to me as young and beautiful as she did thirty-five years ago is good evidence that ten thousand people have already noticed this and have mentioned it to her. I could have said it and spoken the truth, but I was too wise for that. I kept the remark unuttered and saved her Majesty the vexation of hearing it the ten-thousand-and-oneth time. 

 All that report about my proposal to buy Windsor Castle and its grounds was a false rumor. I started it myself. 

 One newspaper said I patted his Majesty on the shoulder--an impertinence of which I was not guilty; I was reared in the most exclusive circles of Missouri and I know how to behave. The King rested his hand upon my arm a moment or two while we were chatting, but he did it of his own accord. The newspaper which said I talked with her Majesty with my hat on spoke the truth, but my reasons for doing it were good and sufficient--in fact unassailable. Rain was threatening, the temperature had cooled, and the Queen said, "Please put your hat on, Mr. Clemens. " I begged her pardon and excused myself from doing it. After a moment or two she said, "Mr. Clemens, put your hat on"--with a slight emphasis on the word "on" "I can't allow you to catch cold here. " When a beautiful queen commands it is a pleasure to obey, and this time I obeyed--but I had already disobeyed once, which is more than a subject would have felt justified in doing; and so it is true, as charged; I did talk with the Queen of England with my hat on, but it wasn't fair in the newspaper man to charge it upon me as an impoliteness, since there were reasons for it which he could not know of. 

Nearly all the members of the British royal family were there, and therewere foreign visitors which included the King of Siam and a party ofIndia princes in their gorgeous court costumes, which Clemens admiredopenly and said he would like to wear himself. 

The English papers spoke of it as one of the largest and mostdistinguished parties ever given at Windsor. Clemens attended it incompany with Mr. And Mrs. J. Henniker Heaton, and when it was over SirThomas Lipton joined them and motored with them back to Brown's. 

He was at Archdeacon Wilberforce's next day, where a curious circumstancedeveloped. When he arrived Wilberforce said to him, in an undertone:

"Come into my library. I have something to show you. "

In the library Clemens was presented to a Mr. Pole, a plain-looking man, suggesting in dress and appearance the English tradesman. Wilberforcesaid:

"Mr. Pole, show to Mr. Clemens what you have brought here. "

Mr. Pole unrolled a long strip of white linen and brought to view at lasta curious, saucer-looking vessel of silver, very ancient in appearance, and cunningly overlaid with green glass. The archdeacon took it andhanded it to Clemens as some precious jewel. Clemens said:

"What is it?"

Wilberforce impressively answered:

"It is the Holy Grail. "

Clemens naturally started with surprise. 

"You may well start, " said Wilberforce; "but it's the truth. That is theHoly Grail. "

Then he gave this explanation: Mr. Pole, a grain merchant of Bristol, haddeveloped some sort of clairvoyant power, or at all events he had dreamedseveral times with great vividness the location of the true Grail. Another dreamer, a Dr. Goodchild, of Bath, was mixed up in the matter, and between them this peculiar vessel, which was not a cup, or a goblet, or any of the traditional things, had been discovered. Mr. Pole seemed aman of integrity, and it was clear that the churchman believed thediscovery to be genuine and authentic. Of course there could be nopositive proof. It was a thing that must be taken on trust. That thevessel itself was wholly different from anything that the generations hadconceived, and was apparently of very ancient make, was opposed to thenatural suggestion of fraud. 

Clemens, to whom the whole idea of the Holy Grail was simply a poeticlegend and myth, had the feeling that he had suddenly been transmigrated, like his own Connecticut Yankee, back into the Arthurian days; but hemade no question, suggested no doubt. Whatever it was, it was to themthe materialization of a symbol of faith which ranked only second to thecross itself, and he handled it reverently and felt the honor of havingbeen one of the first permitted to see the relic. In a subsequentdictation he said:

 I am glad I have lived to see that half-hour--that astonishing half- hour. In its way it stands alone in my life's experience. In the belief of two persons present this was the very vessel which was brought by night and secretly delivered to Nicodemus, nearly nineteen centuries ago, after the Creator of the universe had delivered up His life on the cross for the redemption of the human race; the very cup which the stainless Sir Galahad had sought with knightly devotion in far fields of peril and adventure in Arthur's time, fourteen hundred years ago; the same cup which princely knights of other bygone ages had laid down their lives in long and patient efforts to find, and had passed from life disappointed--and here it was at last, dug up by a grain-broker at no cost of blood or travel, and apparently no purity required of him above the average purity of the twentieth-century dealer in cereal futures; not even a stately name required--no Sir Galahad, no Sir Bors de Ganis, no Sir Lancelot of the Lake--nothing but a mere Mr. Pole. --[From the New York Sun somewhat later: "Mr. Pole communicated the discovery to a dignitary of the Church of England, who summoned a number of eminent persons, including psychologists, to see and discuss it. Forty attended, including some peers with ecclesiastical interests, Ambassador Whitelaw Reid, Professor Crookas, and ministers of various religious bodies, including the Rev. R. J. Campbell. They heard Mr. Pole's story with deep attention, but he could not prove the genuineness of the relic. "]

Clemens saw Mr. And Mrs. Rogers at Claridge's Hotel that evening; lunchedwith his old friends Sir Norman and Lady Lockyer next day; took tea withT. P. O'Connor at the House of Commons, and on the day following, whichwas June a 5th, he was the guest of honor at one of the most elaborateoccasions of his visit--a luncheon given by the Pilgrims at the SavoyHotel. It would be impossible to set down here a report of the doings, or even a list of the guests, of that gathering. The Pilgrims is a clubwith branches on both sides of the ocean, and Mark Twain, on either side, was a favorite associate. At this luncheon the picture on the bill offare represented him as a robed pilgrim, with a great pen for his staff, turning his back on the Mississippi River and being led along hisliterary way by a huge jumping frog, to which he is attached by a string. On a guest-card was printed:

 Pilot of many Pilgrims since the shout "Mark Twain!"--that serves you for a deathless sign --On Mississippi's waterway rang out Over the plummet's line-- Still where the countless ripples laugh above The blue of halcyon seas long may you keep Your course unbroken, buoyed upon a love Ten thousand fathoms deep!

 --O. S. [OWEN SEAMAN]. 

Augustine Birrell made the speech of introduction, closing with thisparagraph:

 Mark Twain is a man whom Englishmen and Americans do well to honor. He is a true consolidator of nations. His delightful humor is of the kind which dissipates and destroys national prejudices. His truth and his honor--his love of truth and his love of honor --overflow all boundaries. He has made the world better by his presence, and we rejoice to see him here. Long may he live to reap a plentiful harvest of hearty honest human affection. 

The toast was drunk standing. Then Clemens rose and made a speech whichdelighted all England. In his introduction Mr. Birrell had happened tosay, "How I came here I will not ask!" Clemens remembered this, andlooking down into Mr. Birrell's wine-glass, which was apparently unused, he said:

"Mr. Birrell doesn't know how he got here. But he will be able to getaway all right--he has not drunk anything since he came. "

He told stories about Howells and Twichell, and how Darwin had gone tosleep reading his books, and then he came down to personal things andcompany, and told them how, on the day of his arrival, he had beenshocked to read on a great placard, "Mark Twain Arrives: Ascot CupStolen. "

 No doubt many a person was misled by those sentences joined together in that unkind way. I have no doubt my character has suffered from it. I suppose I ought to defend my character, but how can I defend it? I can say here and now that anybody can see by my face that I am sincere--that I speak the truth, and that I have never seen that Cup. I have not got the Cup, I did not have a chance to get it. I have always had a good character in that way. I have hardly ever stolen anything, and if I did steal anything I had discretion enough to know about the value of it first. I do not steal things that are likely to get myself into trouble. I do not think any of us do that. I know we all take things--that is to be expected; but really I have never taken anything, certainly in England, that amounts to any great thing. I do confess that when I was here seven years ago I stole a hat--but that did not amount to anything. It was not a good hat it was only a clergyman's hat, anyway. I was at a luncheon-party and Archdeacon Wilberforce was there also. I dare say he is archdeacon now--he was a canon then--and he was serving in the Westminster Battery, if that is the proper term. I do not know, as you mix military and ecclesiastical things together so much. 

He recounted the incident of the exchanged hats; then he spoke of graverthings. He closed:

 I cannot always be cheerful, and I cannot always be chaffing. I must sometimes lay the cap and bells aside and recognize that I am of the human race. I have my cares and griefs, and I therefore noticed what Mr. Birrell said--I was so glad to hear him say it --something that was in the nature of these verses here at the top of the program:

 He lit our life with shafts of sun And vanquished pain. Thus two great nations stand as one In honoring Twain. 

I am very glad to have those verses. I am very glad and very gratefulfor what Mr. Birrell said in that connection. I have received since Ihave been here, in this one week, hundreds of letters from all conditionsof people in England, men, women, and children, and there is compliment, praise, and, above all, and better than all, there is in them a note ofaffection. 

Praise is well, compliment is well, but affection--that is the last andfinal and most precious reward that any man can win, whether by characteror achievement, and I am very grateful to have that reward. All theseletters make me feel that here in England, as in America, when I standunder the English or the American flag I am not a stranger, I am not analien, but at home. 

CCLVIII

DOCTOR OF LITERATURE, OXFORD

He left, immediately following the Pilgrim luncheon, with Hon. Robert P. Porter, of the London Times, for Oxford, to remain his guest there duringthe various ceremonies. The encenia--the ceremony of conferring thedegrees--occurred at the Sheldonian Theater the following morning, June26, 1907. 

It was a memorable affair. Among those who were to receive degrees thatmorning besides Samuel Clemens were: Prince Arthur of Connaught; PrimeMinister Campbell-Bannerman; Whitelaw Reid; Rudyard Kipling; Sidney Lee;Sidney Colvin; Lord Archbishop of Armagh, Primate of Ireland; Sir NormanLockyer; Auguste Rodin, the sculptor; Saint-Saens, and Gen. WilliamBooth, of the Salvation Army-something more than thirty, in all, of theworld's distinguished citizens. 

The candidates assembled at Magdalen College, and led by Lord Curzon, theChancellor, and clad in their academic plumage, filed in radiantprocession to the Sheldonian Theater, a group of men such as the worldseldom sees collected together. The London Standard said of it: So brilliant and so interesting was the list of those who had been selected by Oxford University on Convocation to receive degrees, 'honoris causa', in this first year of Lord Curzon's chancellorship, that it is small wonder that the Sheldonian Theater was besieged today at an early hour. 

 Shortly after 11 o'clock the organ started playing the strains of "God Save the King, " and at once a great volume of sound arose as the anthem was taken up by the undergraduates and the rest of the assemblage. Every one stood up as, headed by the mace of office, the procession slowly filed into the theater, under the leadership of Lord Curzon, in all the glory of his robes of office, the long black gown heavily embroidered with gold, the gold-tasseled mortar- board, and the medals on his breast forming an admirable setting, thoroughly in keeping with the dignity and bearing of the late Viceroy of India. Following him came the members of Convocation, a goodly number consisting of doctors of divinity, whose robes of scarlet and black enhanced the brilliance of the scene. Robes of salmon and scarlet-which proclaim the wearer to be a doctor of civil law--were also seen in numbers, while here and there was a gown of gray and scarlet, emblematic of the doctorate of science or of letters. 

The encenia is an impressive occasion; but it is not a silent one. Thereis a splendid dignity about it; but there goes with it all a sort ofGreek chorus of hilarity, the time-honored prerogative of the Oxfordundergraduate, who insists on having his joke and his merriment at theexpense of those honored guests. The degrees of doctor of law wereconferred first. Prince Arthur was treated with proper dignity by thegallery; but when Whitelaw Reid stepped forth a voice shouted, "Where'syour Star-spangled Banner?" and when England's PrimeMinister-Campbell-Bannerman--came forward some one shouted, "What aboutthe House of Lords?" and so they kept it up, cheering and chaffing, untilGeneral Booth was introduced as the "Passionate advocate of the dregs ofthe people, leader of the submerged tenth, " and "general of the SalvationArmy, " when the place broke into a perfect storm of applause, a stormthat a few minutes later became, according to the Daily News, "averitable cyclone, " for Mark Twain, clad in his robe of scarlet and gray, had been summoned forward to receive the highest academic honors whichthe world has to give. The undergraduates went wild then. There wassuch a mingling of yells and calls and questions, such as, "Have youbrought the jumping Frog with you?" "Where is the Ascot Cup?" "Where arethe rest of the Innocents?" that it seemed as if it would not be possibleto present him at all; but, finally, Chancellor Curzon addressed him (inLatin), "Most amiable and charming sir, you shake the sides of the wholeworld with your merriment, " and the great degree was conferred. If onlyTom Sawyer could have seen him then! If only Olivia Clemens could havesat among those who gave him welcome! But life is not like that. Thereis always an incompleteness somewhere, and the shadow across the path. 

Rudyard Kipling followed--another supreme favorite, who was hailed withthe chorus, "For he's a jolly good fellow, " and then came Saint-Satins. The prize poems and essays followed, and then the procession of newlycreated doctors left the theater with Lord Curzon at their head. So itwas all over-that for which, as he said, he would have made the journeyto Mars. The world had nothing more to give him now except that which hehad already long possessed-its honor and its love. 

The newly made doctors were to be the guests of Lord Curzon at All SoulsCollege for luncheon. As they left the theater (according to SidneyLee):

 The people in the streets singled out Mark Twain, formed a vast and cheering body-guard around him and escorted him to the college gates. But before and after the lunch it was Mark Twain again whom everybody seemed most of all to want to meet. The Maharajah of Bikanir, for instance, finding himself seated at lunch next to Mrs. Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin), and hearing that she knew Mark Twain, asked her to present him a ceremony duly performed later on the quadrangle. At the garden-party given the same afternoon in the beautiful grounds of St. John's, where the indefatigable Mark put in an appearance, it was just the same--every one pressed forward for an exchange of greetings and a hand-shake. On the following day, when the Oxford pageant took place, it was even more so. "Mark Twain's Pageant, " it was called by one of the papers. --[There was a dinner that evening at one of the colleges where, through mistaken information, Clemens wore black evening dress when he should have worn his scarlet gown. "When I arrived, " he said, "the place was just a conflagration--a kind of human prairie-fire. I looked as out of place as a Presbyterian in hell. "]

Clemens remained the guest of Robert Porter, whose house was besiegedwith those desiring a glimpse of their new doctor of letters. If he wenton the streets he was instantly recognized by some newsboy or cabman orbutcher-boy, and the word ran along like a cry of fire, while the crowdsassembled. 

At a luncheon which the Porters gave him the proprietor of the cateringestablishment garbed himself as a waiter in order to have the distinctionof serving Mark Twain, and declared it to have been the greatest momentof his life. This gentleman--for he was no less than that--was a manwell-read, and his tribute was not inspired by mere snobbery. Clemens, learning of the situation, later withdrew from the drawing-room for atalk with him. 

"I found, " he said, "that he knew about ten or fifteen times as muchabout my books as I knew about them myself. "

Mark Twain viewed the Oxford pageant from a box with Rudyard Kipling andLord Curzon, and as they sat there some one passed up a folded slip ofpaper, on the outside of which was written, "Not true. " Opening it, theyread:

 East is East and West is West, And never the Twain shall meet, --a quotation from Kipling. 

They saw the panorama of history file by, a wonderful spectacle whichmade Oxford a veritable dream of the Middle Ages. The lanes and streetsand meadows were thronged with such costumes as Oxford had seen in itslong history. History was realized in a manner which no one couldappreciate more fully than Mark Twain. 

"I was particularly anxious to see this pageant, " he said, "so that Icould get ideas for my funeral procession, which I am planning on a largescale. "

He was not disappointed; it was a realization to him of all the gorgeousspectacles that his soul had dreamed from youth up. 

He easily recognized the great characters of history as they passed by, and he was recognized by them in turn; for they waved to him and bowedand sometimes called his name, and when he went down out of his box, byand by, Henry VIII. Shook hands with him, a monarch he had alwaysdetested, though he was full of friendship for him now; and Charles I. Took off his broad, velvet-plumed hat when they met, and Henry II. AndRosamond and Queen Elizabeth all saluted him--ghosts of the deadcenturies. 

CCLIX

LONDON SOCIAL HONORS

We may not detail all the story of that English visit; even the path ofglory leads to monotony at last. We may only mention a few more of thegreat honors paid to our unofficial ambassador to the world: among them adinner given to members of the Savage Club by the Lord Mayor of London atthe Mansion House, also a dinner given by the American Society at theHotel Cecil in honor of the Fourth of July. Clemens was the guest ofhonor, and responded to the toast given by Ambassador Reid, "The Day weCelebrate. " He made an amusing and not altogether unserious reference tothe American habit of exploding enthusiasm in dangerous fireworks. 

To English colonists he gave credit for having established Americanindependence, and closed:

 We have, however, one Fourth of July which is absolutely our own, and that is the memorable proclamation issued forty years ago by that great American to whom Sir Mortimer Durand paid that just and beautiful tribute--Abraham Lincoln: a proclamation which not only set the black slave free, but set his white owner free also. The owner was set free from that burden and offense, that sad condition of things where he was in so many instances a master and owner of slaves when he did not want to be. That proclamation set them all free. But even in this matter England led the way, for she had set her slaves free thirty years before, and we but followed her example. We always follow her example, whether it is good or bad. And it was an English judge, a century ago, that issued that other great proclamation, and established that great principle, that when a slave, let him belong to whom he may, and let him come whence he may, sets his foot upon English soil his fetters, by that act, fall away and he is a free man before the world!

 It is true, then, that all our Fourths of July, and we have five of them, England gave to us, except that one that I have mentioned--the Emancipation Proclamation; and let us not forget that we owe this debt to her. Let us be able to say to old England, this great- hearted, venerable old mother of the race, you gave us our Fourths of July, that we love and that we honor and revere; you gave us the Declaration of Independence, which is the charter of our rights; you, the venerable Mother of Liberties, the Champion and Protector of Anglo-Saxon Freedom--you gave us these things, and we do most honestly thank you for them. 

It was at this dinner that he characteristically confessed, at last, tohaving stolen the Ascot Cup. 

He lunched one day with Bernard Shaw, and the two discussed thephilosophies in which they were mutually interested. Shaw regardedClemens as a sociologist before all else, and gave it out with greatfrankness that America had produced just two great geniuses--Edgar AllanPoe and Mark Twain. Later Shaw wrote him a note, in which he said:

I am persuaded that the future historian of America will find your worksas indispensable to him as a French historian finds the political tractsof Voltaire. I tell you so because I am the author of a play in which apriest says, "Telling the truth's the funniest joke in the world, " apiece of wisdom which you helped to teach me. 

Clemens saw a great deal of Moberly Bell. The two lunched and dinedprivately together when there was opportunity, and often met at thepublic gatherings. 

The bare memorandum of the week following July Fourth will conveysomething of Mark Twain's London activities:

 Friday, July 5. Dined with Lord and Lady Portsmouth. 

 Saturday, July 6. Breakfasted at Lord Avebury's. Lord Kelvin, Sir Charles Lyell, and Sir Archibald Geikie were there. Sat 22 times for photos, 16 at Histed's. Savage Club dinner in the evening. White suit. Ascot Cup. 

 Sunday, July 7. Called on Lady Langattock and others. Lunched with Sir Norman Lockyer. 

 Monday, July 8. Lunched with Plasmon directors at Bath Club. Dined privately at C. F. Moberly Bell's. 

 Tuesday, July 9. Lunched at the House with Sir Benjamin Stone. Balfour and Komura were the other guests of honor. Punch dinner in the evening. Joy Agnew and the cartoon. 

 Wednesday, July 10. Went to Liverpool with Tay Pay. Attended banquet in the Town Hall in the evening. 

 Thursday, July 11. Returned to London with Tay Pay. Calls in the afternoon. 

The Savage Club would inevitably want to entertain him on its ownaccount, and their dinner of July 6th was a handsome, affair. He felt athome with the Savages, and put on white for the only time publicly inEngland. He made them one of his reminiscent speeches, recalling hisassociation with them on his first visit to London, thirty-seven yearsbefore. Then he said:

 That is a long time ago, and as I had come into a very strange land, and was with friends, as I could see, that has always remained in my mind as a peculiarly blessed evening, since it brought me into contact with men of my own kind and my own feelings. I am glad to be here, and to see you all, because it is very likely that I shall not see you again. I have been received, as you know, in the most delightfully generous way in England ever since I came here. It keeps me choked up all the time. Everybody is so generous, and they do seem to give you such a hearty welcome. Nobody in the world can appreciate it higher than I do. 

The club gave him a surprise in the course of the evening. A note wassent to him accompanied by a parcel, which, when opened, proved tocontain a gilded plaster replica of the Ascot Gold Cup. The note said:

 Dere Mark, i return the Cup. You couldn't keep your mouth shut about it. 'Tis 2 pretty 2 melt, as you want me 2; nest time I work a pinch ile have a pard who don't make after-dinner speeches. 

There was a postcript which said: "I changed the acorn atop for anothernut with my knife. " The acorn was, in fact, replaced by a well-modeledhead of Mark Twain. 

So, after all, the Ascot Cup would be one of the trophies which he wouldbear home with him across the Atlantic. 

Probably the most valued of his London honors was the dinner given to himby the staff of Punch. Punch had already saluted him with a front-pagecartoon by Bernard Partridge, a picture in which the presiding genius ofthat paper, Mr. Punch himself, presents him with a glass of thepatronymic beverage with the words, "Sir, I honor myself by drinking yourhealth. Long life to you--and happiness--and perpetual youth!"

Mr. Agnew, chief editor; Linley Sambourne, Francis Burnand, Henry Lucy, and others of the staff welcomed him at the Punch offices at 10 BouverieStreet, in the historic Punch dining-room where Thackeray had sat, andDouglas Jerrold, and so many of the great departed. Mark Twain was thefirst foreign visitor to be so honored--in fifty years the first strangerto sit at the sacred board--a mighty distinction. In the course of thedinner they gave him a pretty surprise, when little joy Agnew presentedhim with the original drawing of Partridge's cartoon. 

Nothing could have appealed to him more, and the Punch dinner, with itsassociations and that dainty presentation, remained apart in his memoryfrom all other feastings. 

Clemens had intended to return early in July, but so much was happeningthat he postponed his sailing until the 13th. Before leaving America, hehad declined a dinner offered by the Lord Mayor of Liverpool. 

Repeatedly urged to let Liverpool share in his visit, he had reconsiderednow, and on the day following the Punch dinner, on July 10th, theycarried him, with T. P. O'Connor (Tay Pay) in the Prince of Wales'sspecial coach to Liverpool, to be guest of honor at the reception andbanquet which Lord Mayor Japp tendered him at the Town Hall. Clemens wastoo tired to be present while the courses were being served, but arrivedrested and fresh to respond to his toast. Perhaps because it was hisfarewell speech in England, he made that night the most effective addressof his four weeks' visit--one of the most effective of his whole career:He began by some light reference to the Ascot Cup and the Dublin Jewelsand the State Regalia, and other disappearances that had been laid to hischarge, to amuse his hearers, and spoke at greater length than usual, andwith even greater variety. Then laying all levity aside, he told them, like the Queen of Sheba, all that was in his heart. 

 . . . Home is dear to us all, and now I am departing to my own home beyond the ocean. Oxford has conferred upon me the highest honor that has ever fallen to my share of this life's prizes. It is the very one I would have chosen, as outranking all and any others, the one more precious to me than any and all others within the gift of man or state. During my four weeks' sojourn in England I have had another lofty honor, a continuous honor, an honor which has flowed serenely along, without halt or obstruction, through all these twenty-six days, a most moving and pulse-stirring honor--the heartfelt grip of the hand, and the welcome that does not descend from the pale-gray matter of the brain, but rushes up with the red blood from the heart. It makes me proud and sometimes it makes me humble, too. Many and many a year ago I gathered an incident from Dana's Two Years Before the Mast. It was like this: There was a presumptuous little self-important skipper in a coasting sloop engaged in the dried-apple and kitchen-furniture trade, and he was always hailing every ship that came in sight. He did it just to hear himself talk and to air his small grandeur. One day a majestic Indiaman came plowing by with course on course of canvas towering into the sky, her decks and yards swarming with sailors, her hull burdened to the Plimsoll line with a rich freightage of precious spices, lading the breezes with gracious and mysterious odors of the Orient. It was a noble spectacle, a sublime spectacle! Of course the little skipper popped into the shrouds and squeaked out a hail, "Ship ahoy! What ship is that? And whence and whither?" In a deep and thunderous bass the answer came back through the speaking- trumpet, "The Begum, of Bengal--142 days out from Canton--homeward bound! What ship is that?" Well, it just crushed that poor little creature's vanity flat, and he squeaked back most humbly, "Only the Mary Ann, fourteen hours out from Boston, bound for Kittery Point --with nothing to speak of!" Oh, what an eloquent word that "only, " to express the depths of his humbleness! That is just my case. During just one hour in the twenty-four--not more--I pause and reflect in the stillness of the night with the echoes of your English welcome still lingering in my ears, and then I am humble. Then I am properly meek, and for that little while I am only the Mary Ann, fourteen hours out, cargoed with vegetables and tinware; but during all the other twenty-three hours my vain self-complacency rides high on the white crests of your approval, and then I am a stately Indiaman, plowing the great seas under a cloud of canvas and laden with the kindest words that have ever been vouchsafed to any wandering alien in this world, I think; then my twenty-six fortunate days on this old mother soil seem to be multiplied by six, and I am the Begum, of Bengal, 142 days out from Canton--homeward bound!

He returned to London, and with one of his young acquaintances, anAmerican--he called her Francesca--paid many calls. It took thedreariness out of that social function to perform it in that way. With alist of the calls they were to make they drove forth each day to cancelthe social debt. They paid calls in every walk of life. His youngcompanion was privileged to see the inside of London homes of almostevery class, for he showed no partiality; he went to the homes of thepoor and the rich alike. One day they visited the home of an oldbookkeeper whom he had known in 1872 as a clerk in a large establishment, earning a salary of perhaps a pound a week, who now had risen mightily, for he had become head bookkeeper in that establishment on a salary ofsix pounds a week, and thought it great prosperity and fortune for hisold age. 

He sailed on July 13th for home, besought to the last moment by a crowdof autograph-seekers and reporters and photographers, and a multitude whoonly wished to see him and to shout and wave good-by. He was sailingaway from them for the last time. They hoped he would make a speech, butthat would not have been possible. To the reporters he gave a farewellmessage: "It has been the most enjoyable holiday I have ever had, and Iam sorry the end of it has come. I have met a hundred, old friends, andI have made a hundred new ones. It is a good kind of riches to have;there is none better, I think. " And the London Tribune declared that"the ship that bore him away had difficulty in getting clear, so thicklywas the water strewn with the bay-leaves of his triumph. For Mark Twainhas triumphed, and in his all-too-brief stay of a month has done more forthe cause of the world's peace than will be accomplished by the HagueConference. He has made the world laugh again. "

His ship was the Minnetonka, and there were some little folks aboard tobe adopted as grandchildren. On July 5th, in a fog, the Minnetonkacollided with the bark Sterling, and narrowly escaped sinking her. Onthe whole, however, the homeward way was clear, and the vessel reachedNew York nearly a day in advance of their schedule. Some ceremonies ofwelcome had been prepared for him; but they were upset by the earlyarrival, so that when he descended the gang-plank to his native soil onlya few who had received special information were there to greet him. Butperhaps he did not notice it. He seldom took account of the absence ofsuch things. By early afternoon, however, the papers rang with theannouncement that Mark Twain was home again. 

It is a sorrow to me that I was not at the dock to welcome him. I hadbeen visiting in Elmira, and timed my return for the evening of the a 2d, to be on hand the following morning, when the ship was due. When I sawthe announcement that he had already arrived I called a greeting over thetelephone, and was told to come down and play billiards. I confess Iwent with a certain degree of awe, for one could not but be overwhelmedwith the echoes of the great splendor he had so recently achieved, and Iprepared to sit a good way off in silence, and hear something of the taleof this returning conqueror; but when I arrived he was already in thebilliard-room knocking the balls about--his coat off, for it was a hotnight. As I entered he said:

"Get your cue. I have been inventing a new game. " And I think therewere scarcely ten words exchanged before we were at it. The pageant wasover; the curtain was rung down. Business was resumed at the old stand. 

CCLX

MATTERS PSYCHIC AND OTHERWISE

He returned to Tuxedo and took up his dictations, and mingled freely withthe social life; but the contrast between his recent London experienceand his semi-retirement must have been very great. When I visited himnow and then, he seemed to me lonely--not especially for companionship, but rather for the life that lay behind him--the great career which in asense now had been completed since he had touched its highest point. There was no billiard-table at Tuxedo, and he spoke expectantly ofgetting back to town and the games there, also of the new home which wasthen building in Redding, and which would have a billiard-room where wecould assemble daily--my own habitation being not far away. Variousdiversions were planned for Redding; among them was discussed a possibleschool of philosophy, such as Hawthorne and Emerson and Alcott hadestablished at Concord. 

He spoke quite freely of his English experiences, but usually of the moreamusing phases. He almost never referred to the honors that had beenpaid to him, yet he must have thought of them sometimes, and cherishedthem, for it had been the greatest national tribute ever paid to aprivate citizen; he must have known that in his heart. He spokeamusingly of his visit to Marie Corelli, in Stratford, and of the HolyGrail incident, ending the latter by questioning--in words at least--allpsychic manifestations. I said to him:

"But remember your own dream, Mr. Clemens, which presaged the death ofyour brother. "

He answered: "I ask nobody to believe that it ever happened. To me it istrue; but it has no logical right to be true, and I do not expect beliefin it. " Which I thought a peculiar point of view, but on the wholecharacteristic. 

He was invited to be a special guest at the Jamestown Exposition onFulton Day, in September, and Mr. Rogers lent him his yacht in which tomake the trip. It was a break in the summer's monotonies, and theJamestown honors must have reminded him of those in London. When heentered the auditorium where the services were to be held there was ademonstration which lasted more than five minutes. Every person in thehall rose and cheered, waving handkerchiefs and umbrellas. He made thema brief, amusing talk on Fulton and other matters, then introducedAdmiral Harrington, who delivered a masterly address and was followed byMartin W. Littleton, the real orator of the day. Littleton acquittedhimself so notably that Mark Twain conceived for him a deep admiration, and the two men quickly became friends. They saw each other often duringthe remainder of the Jamestown stay, and Clemens, learning that Littletonlived just across Ninth Street from him in New York, invited him to comeover when he had an evening to spare and join the billiard games. 

So it happened, somewhat later, when every one was back in town, Mr. AndMrs. Littleton frequently came over for billiards, and the games becamethree-handed with an audience--very pleasant games played in that way. Clemens sometimes set himself up as umpire, and became critic and gaveadvice, while Littleton and I played. He had a favorite shot that hefrequently used himself and was always wanting us to try, which was todrive the ball to the cushion at the beginning of the shot. 

He played it with a good deal of success, and achieved unexpected resultswith it. He was even inspired to write a poem on the subject. 

 "CUSHION FIRST"

 When all your days are dark with doubt, And dying hope is at its worst; When all life's balls are scattered wide, With not a shot in sight, to left or right, Don't give it up; Advance your cue and shut your eyes, And take the cushion first. 

The Harry Thaw trial was in progress just then, and Littleton was Thaw'schief attorney. It was most interesting to hear from him direct theday's proceedings and his views of the situation and of Thaw. 

Littleton and billiards recall a curious thing which happened oneafternoon. I had been absent the evening before, and Littleton had beenover. It was after luncheon now, and Clemens and I began preparing forthe customary games. We were playing then a game with four balls, twowhite and two red. I began by placing the red balls on the table, andthen went around looking in the pockets for the two white cue-balls. WhenI had made the round of the table I had found but one white ball. Ithought I must have overlooked the other, and made the round again. ThenI said:

"There is one white ball missing. "

Clemens, to satisfy himself, also made the round of the pockets, andsaid:

"It was here last night. " He felt in the pockets of the littlewhite-silk coat which he usually wore, thinking that he mightunconsciously have placed it there at the end of the last game, but hiscoat pockets were empty. 

He said: "I'll bet Littleton carried that ball home with him. "

Then I suggested that near the end of the game it might have jumped offthe table, and I looked carefully under the furniture and in the variouscorners, but without success. There was another set of balls, and out ofit I selected a white one for our play, and the game began. It wentalong in the usual way, the balls constantly falling into the pockets, and as constantly being replaced on the table. This had continued forperhaps half an hour, there being no pocket that had not been frequentlyoccupied and emptied during that time; but then it happened that Clemensreached into the middle pocket, and taking out a white ball laid it inplace, whereupon we made the discovery that three white balls lay uponthe table. The one just taken from the pocket was the missing ball. Welooked at each other, both at first too astonished to say anything atall. No one had been in the room since we began to play, and at no timeduring the play had there been more than two white balls in evidence, though the pockets had been emptied at the end of each shot. The pocketfrom which the missing ball had been taken had been filled and emptiedagain and again. Then Clemens said:

"We must be dreaming. "

We stopped the game for a while to discuss it, but we could devise nomaterial explanation. I suggested the kobold--that mischievous invisiblewhich is supposed to play pranks by carrying off such things as pencils, letters, and the like, and suddenly restoring them almost before one'seyes. Clemens, who, in spite of his material logic, was always a mysticat heart, said:

"But that, so far as I know, has never happened to more than one personat a time, and has been explained by a sort of temporary mentalblindness. This thing has happened to two of us, and there can be noquestion as to the positive absence of the object. "

"How about dematerialization?"

"Yes, if one of us were a medium that might be considered anexplanation. "

He went on to recall that Sir Alfred Russel Wallace had written of suchthings, and cited instances which Wallace had recorded. In the end hesaid:

"Well, it happened, that's all we can say, and nobody can ever convinceme that it didn't. "

We went on playing, and the ball remained solid and substantial everafter, so far as I know. 

I am reminded of two more or less related incidents of this period. Clemens was, one morning, dictating something about his Christian Unionarticle concerning Mrs. Clemens's government of children, published in1885. I had discovered no copy of it among the materials, and he waswishing very much that he could see one. Somewhat later, as he waswalking down Fifth Avenue, the thought of this article and his desire forit suddenly entered his mind. Reaching the corner of Forty-secondStreet, he stopped a moment to let a jam of vehicles pass. As he did soa stranger crossed the street, noticed him, and came dodging his waythrough the blockade and thrust some clippings into his hand. 

"Mr. Clemens, " he said, "you don't know me, but here is something you maywish to have. I have been saving them for more than twenty years, andthis morning it occurred to me to send them to you. I was going to mailthem from my office, but now I will give them to you, " and with a word ortwo he disappeared. The clippings were from the Christian Union of 1885, and were the much-desired article. Clemens regarded it as a remarkablecase of mental telegraphy. 

"Or, if it wasn't that, " he said, "it was a most remarkable coincidence. "

The other circumstance has been thought amusing. I had gone to Reddingfor a few days, and while there, one afternoon about five o'clock, fellover a coal-scuttle and scarified myself a good deal between the ankleand the knee. I mention the hour because it seems important. Nextmorning I received a note, prompted by Mr. Clemens, in which he said:

Tell Paine I am sorry he fell and skinned his shin at five o'clockyesterday afternoon. 

I was naturally astonished, and immediately wrote:

I did fall and skin my shin at five o'clock yesterday afternoon, but howdid you find it out?

I followed the letter in person next day, and learned that at the samehour on the same afternoon Clemens himself had fallen up the front stepsand, as he said, peeled off from his "starboard shin a ribbon of skinthree inches long. " The disaster was still uppermost in his mind at thetime of writing, and the suggestion of my own mishap had flashed out forno particular reason. 

Clemens was always having his fortune told, in one way or another, beingsuperstitious, as he readily confessed, though at times professing littlefaith in these prognostics. Once when a clairvoyant, of whom he hadnever even heard, and whom he had reason to believe was ignorant of hisfamily history, told him more about it than he knew himself, besidesreading a list of names from a piece of paper which Clemens had concealedin his vest pocket he came home deeply impressed. The clairvoyant addedthat he would probably live to a great age and die in a foreign land--aprophecy which did not comfort him. 

CCLXI

MINOR EVENTS AND DIVERSIONS

Mark Twain was deeply interested during the autumn of 1907 in theChildren's Theater of the Jewish Educational Alliance, on the lower EastSide--a most worthy institution which ought to have survived. A MissAlice M. Herts, who developed and directed it, gave her strength andhealth to build up an institution through which the interest of thechildren could be diverted from less fortunate amusements. She hadinterested a great body of Jewish children in the plays of Shakespeare, and of more modern dramatists, and these they had performed from time totime with great success. The admission fee to the performance was tencents, and the theater was always crowded with other children--certainlya better diversion for them than the amusements of the street, though ofcourse, as a business enterprise, the theater could not pay. It requiredpatrons. Miss Herts obtained permission to play "The Prince and thePauper, " and Mark Twain agreed to become a sort of chief patron in usinghis influence to bring together an audience who might be willing toassist financially in this worthy work. 

"The Prince and the Pauper" evening turned out a distinguished affair. Onthe night of November 19, 1907, the hall of the Educational Alliance wascrowded with such an audience as perhaps never before assembled on theEast Side; the finance and the fashion of New York were there. It was agala night for the little East Side performers. Behind the curtain theywhispered to each other that they were to play before queens. Theperformance they gave was an astonishing one. So fully did they enterinto the spirit of Tom Canty's rise to royalty that they seemedabsolutely to forget that they were lowly-born children of the Ghetto. They had become little princesses and lords and maids-in-waiting, andthey moved through their pretty tinsel parts as if all their ornamentswere gems and their raiment cloth of gold. There was no hesitation, noawkwardness of speech or gesture, and they rose really to sublime heightsin the barn scene where the little Prince is in the hands of the mob. Never in the history of the stage has there been assembled a mob morewonderful than that. These children knew mobs! A mob to them was adaily sight, and their reproduction of it was a thing to startle you withits realism. Never was it absurd; never was there a single note ofartificiality in it. It was Hogarthian in its bigness. 

Both Mark Twain and Miss Herts made brief addresses, and the audienceshouted approval of their words. It seems a pity that such a project asthat must fail, and I do not know why it happened. Wealthy men and womenmanifested an interest; but there was some hitch somewhere, and theChildren's Theater exists to-day only as history. --[In a letter to a Mrs. Amelia Dunne Hookway, who had conducted some children's plays at theHowland School, Chicago, Mark Twain once wrote: "If I were going to beginlife over again I would have a children's theater and watch it, and workfor it, and see it grow and blossom and bear its rich moral andintellectual fruitage; and I should get more pleasure and a saner andhealthier profit out of my vocation than I should ever be able to get outof any other, constituted as I am. Yes, you are easily the mostfortunate of women, I think. "]

It was at a dinner at The Players--a small, private dinner given by Mr. George C. Riggs-that I saw Edward L. Burlingame and Mark Twain for theonly time together. They had often met during the forty-two years thathad passed since their long-ago Sandwich Island friendship; but onlyincidentally, for Mr. Burlingame cared not much for great publicoccasions, and as editor of Scribner's Magazine he had been somewhat outof the line of Mark Twain's literary doings. 

Howells was there, and Gen. Stewart L. Woodford, and David Bispham, JohnFinley, Evan Shipman, Nicholas Biddle, and David Munro. Clemens toldthat night, for the first time, the story of General Miles and thethree-dollar dog, inventing it, I believe, as he went along, though forthe moment it certainly did sound like history. He told it often afterthat, and it has been included in his book of speeches. 

Later, in the cab, he said:

"That was a mighty good dinner. Riggs knows how to do that sort ofthing. I enjoyed it ever so much. Now we'll go home and playbilliards. "

We began about eleven o'clock, and played until after midnight. Ihappened to be too strong for him, and he swore amazingly. He vowed thatit was not a gentleman's game at all, that Riggs's wine had demoralizedthe play. But at the end, when we were putting up the cues, he said:

"Well, those were good games. There is nothing like billiards afterall. "

We did not play billiards on his birthday that year. He went to thetheater in the afternoon; and it happened that, with Jesse LynchWilliams, I attended the same performance--the "Toy-Maker of Nuremberg"--written by Austin Strong. It proved to be a charming play, and I couldsee that Clemens was enjoying it. He sat in a box next to the stage, andthe actors clearly were doing their very prettiest for his benefit. 

When later I mentioned having seen him at the play, he spoke freely ofhis pleasure in it. 

"It is a fine, delicate piece of work, " he said. "I wish I could do suchthings as that. "

"I believe you are too literary for play-writing. "

"Yes, no doubt. There was never any question with the managers about myplays. They always said they wouldn't act. Howells has come pretty nearto something once or twice. I judge the trouble is that the literary manis thinking of the style and quality of the thing, while the playwrightthinks only of how it will play. One is thinking of how it will sound, the other of how it will look. "

"I suppose, " I said, "the literary man should have a collaborator with agenius for stage mechanism. John Luther Long's exquisite plays wouldhardly have been successful without David Belasco to stage them. Belascocannot write a play himself, but in the matter of acting construction hisgenius is supreme. "

"Yes, so it is; it was Belasco who made it possible to play 'The Princeand the Pauper'--a collection of literary garbage before he got hold ofit. "

Clemens attended few public functions now. He was beset withinvitations, but he declined most of them. He told the dog story onenight to the Pleiades Club, assembled at the Brevoort; but that was onlya step away, and we went in after the dining was ended and came awaybefore the exercises were concluded. 

He also spoke at a banquet given to Andrew Carnegie--Saint Andrew, as hecalled him--by the Engineers Club, and had his usual fun at the chiefguest's expense. 

 I have been chief guest at a good many banquets myself, and I know what brother Andrew is feeling like now. He has been receiving compliments and nothing but compliments, but he knows that there is another side to him that needs censure. 

 I am going to vary the complimentary monotony. While we have all been listening to the complimentary talk Mr. Carnegie's face has scintillated with fictitious innocence. You'd think he never committed a crime in his life. But he has. 

 Look at his pestiferous simplified spelling. Imagine the calamity on two sides of the ocean when he foisted his simplified spelling on the whole human race. We've got it all now so that nobody could spell . . . . 

 If Mr. Carnegie had left spelling alone we wouldn't have had any spots on the sun, or any San Francisco quake, or any business depression. 

 There, I trust he feels better now and that he has enjoyed my abuse more than he did his compliments. And now that I think I have him smoothed down and feeling comfortable I just want to say one thing more--that his simplified spelling is all right enough, but, like chastity, you can carry it too far. 

As he was about to go, Carnegie called his attention to the beautifulsouvenir bronze and gold-plated goblets that stood at each guest's plate. Carnegie said:

"The club had those especially made at Tiffany's for this occasion. Theycost ten dollars apiece. "

Clemens sand: "Is that so? Well, I only meant to take my own; but ifthat's the case I'll load my cab with them. "

We made an attempt to reform on the matter of billiards. The continuedstrain of late hours was doing neither of us any particular good. Morethan once I journeyed into the country on one errand and another, mainlyfor rest; but a card saying that he was lonely and upset, for lack of hisevening games, quickly brought me back again. It was my wish only toserve him; it was a privilege and an honor to give him happiness. 

Billiards, however, was not his only recreation just then. He walked outa good deal, and especially of a pleasant Sunday morning he liked thestroll up Fifth Avenue. Sometimes we went as high as Carnegie's, onNinety-second Street, and rode home on top of the electric stage--alwaysone of Mark Twain's favorite diversions. 

From that high seat he liked to look down on the panorama of the streets, and in that free, open air he could smoke without interference. Oftener, however, we turned at Fifty-ninth Street, walking both ways. 

When it was pleasant we sometimes sat on a bench in Central Park; andonce he must have left a handkerchief there, for a few days later one ofhis handkerchiefs came to him accompanied by a note. Its finder, a Mr. Lockwood, received a reward, for Mark Twain wrote him:

 There is more rejoicing in this house over that one handkerchief that was lost and is found again than over the ninety and nine that never went to the wash at all. Heaven will reward you, I know it will. 

On Sunday mornings the return walk would be timed for about the hour thatthe churches would be dismissed. On the first Sunday morning we hadstarted a little early, and I thoughtlessly suggested, when we reachedFifty-ninth Street, that if we returned at once we would avoid thethrong. He said, quietly:

"I like the throng. "

So we rested in the Plaza Hotel until the appointed hour. Men and womennoticed him, and came over to shake his hand. The gigantic man inuniform; in charge of the carriages at the door, came in for a word. Hehad opened carriages for Mr. Clemens at the Twenty-third Street station, and now wanted to claim that honor. I think he received the most cordialwelcome of any one who came. I am sure he did. It was Mark Twain's wayto warm to the man of the lower social rank. He was never too busy, never too preoccupied, to grasp the hand of such a man; to listen to hisstory, and to say just the words that would make that man happyremembering them. 

We left the Plaza Hotel and presently were amid the throng of outpouringcongregations. Of course he was the object on which every passing eyeturned; the presence to which every hat was lifted. I realized that thisopen and eagerly paid homage of the multitude was still dear to him, notin any small and petty way, but as the tribute of a nation, theexpression of that affection which in his London and Liverpool speecheshe had declared to be the last and final and most precious reward thatany man can win, whether by character or achievement. It was his finalharvest, and he had the courage to claim it--the aftermath of all hisyears of honorable labor and noble living. 

CCLXII

FROM MARK TWAIN's MAIL

If the reader has any curiosity as to some of the less usual letterswhich a man of wide public note may inspire, perhaps he will find acertain interest in a few selected from the thousands which yearly cameto Mark Twain. 

For one thing, he was constantly receiving prescriptions and remedieswhenever the papers reported one of his bronchial or rheumatic attacks. It is hardly necessary to quote examples of these, but only a form of hisoccasional reply, which was likely to be in this wise:

 DEAR SIR [or MADAM], --I try every remedy sent to me. I am now on No. 87. Yours is 2, 653. I am looking forward to its beneficial results. 

Of course a large number of the nostrums and palliatives offered werepreparations made by the wildest and longest-haired medical cranks. Oneof these sent an advertisement of a certain Elixir of Life, which wasguaranteed to cure everything--to "wash and cleanse the human molecules, and so restore youth and preserve life everlasting. "

Anonymous letters are not usually popular or to be encouraged, but MarkTwain had an especial weakness for compliments that came in that way. They were not mercenary compliments. The writer had nothing to gain. Twosuch letters follow--both written in England just at the time of hisreturn. 

 MARK TWAIN. 

 DEAR SIR, --Please accept a poor widow's good-by and kindest wishes. I have had some of your books sent to me; have enjoyed them very much--only wish I could afford to buy some. 

 I should very much like to have seen you. I have many photos of you which I have cut from several papers which I read. I have one where you are writing in bed, which I cut from the Daily News. Like myself, you believe in lots of sleep and rest. I am 70 and I find I need plenty. Please forgive the liberty I have taken in writing to you. If I can't come to your funeral may we meet beyond the river. 

 May God guard you, is the wish of a lonely old widow. Yours sincerely, The other letter also tells its own story:

 DEAR, KIND MARK TWAIN, --For years I have wanted to write and thank you for the comfort you were to me once, only I never quite knew where you were, and besides I did not want to bother you; but to-day I was told by some one who saw you going into the lift at the Savoy that you looked sad and I thought it might cheer you a little tiny bit to hear how you kept a poor lonely girl from ruining her eyes with crying every night for long months. 

 Ten years ago I had to leave home and earn my living as a governess and Fate sent me to spend a winter with a very dull old country family in the depths of Staffordshire. According to the genial English custom, after my five charges had gone to bed, I took my evening meal alone in the school-room, where "Henry Tudor had supped the night before Bosworth, " and there I had to stay without a soul to speak to till I went to bed. At first I used to cry every night, but a friend sent me a copy of your Huckleberry Finn and I never cried any more. I kept him handy under the copy-books and maps, and when Henry Tudor commenced to stretch out his chilly hands toward me I grabbed my dear Huck and he never once failed me; I opened him at random and in two minutes I was in another world. That's why I am so grateful to you and so fond of you, and I thought you might like to know; for it is yourself that has the kind heart, as is easily seen from the way you wrote about the poor old nigger. I am a stenographer now and live at home, but I shall never forget how you helped me. God bless you and spare you long to those you are dear to. 

A letter which came to him soon after his return from England contained aclipping which reported the good work done by Christian missionaries inthe Congo, especially among natives afflicted by the terrible sleepingsickness. The letter itself consisted merely of a line, which said:

 Won't you give your friends, the missionaries, a good mark for this?

The writer's name was signed, and Mark Twain answered:

 In China the missionaries are not wanted, & so they ought to be decent & go away. But I have not heard that in the Congo the missionary servants of God are unwelcome to the native. 

 Evidently those missionaries axe pitying, compassionate, kind. How it would improve God to take a lesson from them! He invented & distributed the germ of that awful disease among those helpless, poor savages, & now He sits with His elbows on the balusters & looks down & enjoys this wanton crime. Confidently, & between you & me --well, never mind, I might get struck by lightning if I said it. 

 Those are good and kindly men, those missionaries, but they are a measureless satire upon their Master. 

To which the writer answered:

 O wicked Mr. Clemens! I have to ask Saint Joan of Arc to pray for you; then one of these days, when we all stand before the Golden Gates and we no longer "see through a glass darkly and know only in part, " there will be a struggle at the heavenly portals between Joan of Arc and St. Peter, but your blessed Joan will conquer and she'll lead Mr. Clemens through the gates of pearl and apologize and plead for him. 

Of the letters that irritated him, perhaps the following is as fair asample as any, and it has additional interest in its sequel. 

 DEAR SIR, --I have written a book--naturally--which fact, however, since I am not your enemy, need give you no occasion to rejoice. Nor need you grieve, though I am sending you a copy. If I knew of any way of compelling you to read it I would do so, but unless the first few pages have that effect I can do nothing. Try the first few pages. I have done a great deal more than that with your books, so perhaps you owe me some thing--say ten pages. If after that attempt you put it aside I shall be sorry--for you. 

 I am afraid that the above looks flippant--but think of the twitterings of the soul of him who brings in his hand an unbidden book, written by himself. To such a one much is due in the way of indulgence. Will you remember that? Have you forgotten early twitterings of your own?

In a memorandum made on this letter Mark Twain wrote:

 Another one of those peculiarly depressing letters--a letter cast in artificially humorous form, whilst no art could make the subject humorous--to me. 

Commenting further, he said:

 As I have remarked before about one thousand times the coat of arms of the human race ought to consist of a man with an ax on his shoulder proceeding toward a grindstone, or it ought to represent the several members of the human race holding out the hat to one another; for we are all beggars, each in his own way. One beggar is too proud to beg for pennies, but will beg for an introduction into society; another does not care for society, but he wants a postmastership; another will inveigle a lawyer into conversation and then sponge on him for free advice. The man who wouldn't do any of these things will beg for the Presidency. Each admires his own dignity and greatly guards it, but in his opinion the others haven't any. 

 Mendicancy is a matter of taste and temperament, no doubt, but no human being is without some form of it. I know my own form, you know yours. Let us conceal them from view and abuse the others. There is no man so poor but what at intervals some man comes to him with an ax to grind. By and by the ax's aspect becomes familiar to the proprietor of the grindstone. He perceives that it is the same old ax. If you are a governor you know that the stranger wants an office. The first time he arrives you are deceived; he pours out such noble praises of you and your political record that you are moved to tears; there's a lump in your throat and you are thankful that you have lived for this happiness. Then the stranger discloses his ax, and you are ashamed of yourself and your race. Six repetitions will cure you. After that you interrupt the compliments and say, "Yes, yes, that's all right; never mind about that. What is it you want?"

 But you and I are in the business ourselves. Every now and then we carry our ax to somebody and ask a whet. I don't carry mine to strangers--I draw the line there; perhaps that is your way. This is bound to set us up on a high and holy pinnacle and make us look down in cold rebuke on persons who carry their axes to strangers. 

 I do not know how to answer that stranger's letter. I wish he had spared me. Never mind about him--I am thinking about myself. I wish he had spared me. The book has not arrived yet; but no matter, I am prejudiced against it. 

It was a few days later that he added:

 I wrote to that man. I fell back upon the old Overworked, polite lie, and thanked him for his book and said I was promising myself the pleasure of reading it. Of course that set me free; I was not obliged to read it now at all, and, being free, my prejudice was gone, and as soon as the book came I opened it to see what it was like. I was not able to put it down until I had finished. It was an embarrassing thing to have to write to that man and confess that fact, but I had to do it. That first letter was merely a lie. Do you think I wrote the second one to give that man pleasure? Well, I did, but it was second-hand pleasure. I wrote it first to give myself comfort, to make myself forget the original lie. 

Mark Twain's interest was once aroused by the following:

 DEAR SIR, --I have had more or less of your works on my shelves for years, and believe I have practically a complete set now. This is nothing unusual, of course, but I presume it will seem to you unusual for any one to keep books constantly in sight which the owner regrets ever having read. 

 Every time my glance rests on the books I do regret having read them, and do not hesitate to tell you so to your face, and care not who may know my feelings. You, who must be kept busy attending to your correspondence, will probably pay little or no attention to this small fraction of it, yet my reasons, I believe, are sound and are probably shared by more people than you are aware of. 

 Probably you will not read far enough through this to see who has signed it, but if you do, and care to know why I wish I had left your work unread, I will tell you as briefly as possible if you will ask me. GEORGE B. LAUDER. 

Clemens did not answer the letter, but put it in his pocket, perhapsintending to do so, and a few days later, in Boston, when a reportercalled, he happened to remember it. The reporter asked permission toprint the queer document, and it appeared in his Mark Twain interviewnext morning. A few days later the writer of it sent a second letter, this time explaining:

 MY DEAR SIR, --I saw in to-day's paper a copy of the letter which I wrote you October 26th. 

 I have read and re-read your works until I can almost recall some of them word for word. My familiarity with them is a constant source of pleasure which I would not have missed, and therefore the regret which I have expressed is more than offset by thankfulness. 

 Believe me, the regret which I feel for having read your works is entirely due to the unalterable fact that I can never again have the pleasure of reading them for the first time. 

 Your sincere admirer, GEORGE B. LADDER. 

Mark Twain promptly replied this time: DEAR SIR, You fooled me completely; I didn't divine what the letter was concealing, neither did the newspaper men, so you are a very competent deceiver. Truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

It was about the end of 1907 that the new St. Louis Harbor boat, wascompleted. The editor of the St. Louis Republic reported that it hasbeen christened "Mark Twain, " and asked for a word of comment. Clemenssent this line:

 May my namesake follow in my righteous footsteps, then neither of us will need any fire insurance. 

CCLXIII

SOME LITERARY LUNCHEONS

Howells, in his book, refers to the Human Race Luncheon Club, whichClemens once organized for the particular purpose of damning the speciesin concert. It was to consist, beside Clemens himself, of Howells, Colonel Harvey, and Peter Dunne; but it somehow never happened that eventhis small membership could be assembled while the idea was still fresh, and therefore potent. 

Out of it, however, grew a number of those private social gatheringswhich Clemens so dearly loved--small luncheons and dinners given at hisown table. The first of these came along toward the end of 1907, whenHowells was planning to spend the winter in Italy. 

"Howells is going away, " he said, "and I should like to give him astag-party. We'll enlarge the Human Race Club for the occasion. "

So Howells, Colonel Harvey, Martin Littleton, Augustus Thomas, RobertPorter, and Paderewski were invited. Paderewski was unable to come, andseven in all assembled. 

Howells was first to arrive. 

"Here comes Howells, " Clemens said. "Old Howells a thousand years old. "

But Howells didn't look it. His face was full of good-nature andapparent health, and he was by no means venerable, either in speech oraction. Thomas, Porter, Littleton, and Harvey drifted in. Cocktailswere served and luncheon was announced. 

Claude, the butler, had prepared the table with fine artistry--its centera mass of roses. There was to be no woman in the neighborhood--Clemensannounced this fact as a sort of warrant for general freedom ofexpression. 

Thomas's play, "The Witching Hour, " was then at the height of its greatacceptance, and the talk naturally began there. Thomas told something ofthe difficulty which he found in being able to convince a manager that itwould succeed, and declared it to be his own favorite work. I believethere was no dissenting opinion as to its artistic value, or concerningits purpose and psychology, though these had been the stumbling-blocksfrom a managerial point of view. 

When the subject was concluded, and there had come a lull, ColonelHarvey, who was seated at Clemens's left, said:

"Uncle Mark"--he often called him that--"Major Leigh handed me a reportof the year's sales just as I was leaving. It shows your royalty returnsthis year to be very close to fifty thousand dollars. I don't believethere is another such return from old books on record. "

This was said in an undertone, to Clemens only, but was overheard by oneor two of those who sat nearest. Clemens was not unwilling to repeat itfor the benefit of all, and did so. Howells said:

"A statement like that arouses my basest passions. The books are nogood; it's just the advertising they get. "

Clemens said: "Yes, my contract compels the publisher to advertise. Itcosts them two hundred dollars every time they leave the advertisementout of the magazines. "

"And three hundred every time we put it in, " said Harvey. "We oftendebate whether it is more profitable to put in the advertisement or toleave it out. "

The talk switched back to plays and acting. Thomas recalled an incidentof Beerbohm Tree's performance of "Hamlet. " W. S. Gilbert, oflight-opera celebrity, was present at a performance, and when the playended Mrs. Tree hurried over to him and said:

"Oh, Mr. Gilbert, what did you think of Mr. Tree's rendition of Hamlet?""Remarkable, " said Gilbert. "Funny without being vulgar. "

It was with such idle tales and talk-play that the afternoon passed. Notmuch of it all is left to me, but I remember Howells saying, "Did it everoccur to you that the newspapers abolished hell? Well, they did--it wasnever done by the church. There was a consensus of newspaper opinionthat the old hell with its lake of fire and brimstone was an antiquatedinstitution; in fact a dead letter. " And again, "I was coming downBroadway last night, and I stopped to look at one of the street-vendersselling those little toy fighting roosters. It was a bleak, desolateevening; nobody was buying anything, and as he pulled the string and keptthose little roosters dancing and fighting his remarks grew more and morecheerless and sardonic. 

"'Japanese game chickens, ' he said; 'pretty toys, amuse the children withtheir antics. Child of three can operate it. Take them home forChristmas. Chicken-fight at your own fireside. ' I tried to catch his eyeto show him that I understood his desolation and sorrow, but it was nouse. He went on dancing his toy chickens, and saying, over and over, 'Chicken-fight at your own fireside. '"

The luncheon over, we wandered back into the drawing-room, and presentlyall left but Colonel Harvey. Clemens and the Colonel went up to thebilliard-room and engaged in a game of cushion caroms, at twenty-fivecents a game. I was umpire and stakeholder, and it was a mostinteresting occupation, for the series was close and a very cheerful one. It ended the day much to Mark Twain's satisfaction, for he was oftenestwinner. That evening he said:

"We will repeat that luncheon; we ought to repeat it once a month. Howells will be gone, but we must have the others. We cannot have athing like that too often. "

There was, in fact, a second stag-luncheon very soon after, at whichGeorge Riggs was present and that rare Irish musician, Denis O'Sullivan. It was another choice afternoon, with a mystical quality which came ofthe music made by O'Sullivan on some Hindu reeds-pipes of Pan. But weshall have more of O'Sullivan presently--all too little, for his dayswere few and fleeting. 

Howells could not get away just yet. Colonel Harvey, who, like JamesOsgood, would not fail to find excuse for entertainment, chartered twodrawing-room cars, and with Mrs. Harvey took a party of fifty-five orsixty congenial men and women to Lakewood for a good-by luncheon toHowells. It was a day borrowed from June, warm and beautiful. 

The trip down was a sort of reception. Most of the guests wereacquainted, but many of them did not often meet. There was constantvisiting back and forth the full length of the two coaches. DenisO'Sullivan was among the guests. He looked in the bloom of health, andhe had his pipes and played his mystic airs; then he brought out thetin-whistle of Ireland, and blew such rollicking melodies as caperingfairies invented a long time ago. This was on the train going down. 

There was a brief program following the light-hearted feasting--aninformal program fitting to that sunny day. It opened with somerecitations by Miss Kitty Cheatham; then Colonel Harvey introducedHowells, with mention of his coming journey. As a rule, Howells does notenjoy speaking. He is willing to read an address on occasion, but he hasowned that the prospect of talking without his notes terrifies him. Thistime, however, there was no reluctance, though he had prepared no speech. He was among friends. He looked even happy when he got on his feet, andhe spoke like a happy man. He talked about Mark Twain. It was alldelicate, delicious chaffing which showed Howells at his very best--alltoo short for his listeners. 

Clemens, replying, returned the chaff, and rambled amusingly among hisfancies, closing with a few beautiful words of "Godspeed and safe return"to his old comrade and friend. 

Then once more came Denis and his pipes. No one will ever forget hispart of the program. The little samples we had heard on the train wereexpanded and multiplied and elaborated in a way that fairly swept hislisteners out of themselves into that land where perhaps Denis himselfwanders playing now; for a month later, strong and lusty and beautiful ashe seemed that day, he suddenly vanished from among us and his reeds weresilent. It never occurred to us then that Denis could die; and as hefinished each melody and song there was a shout for a repetition, and Ithink we could have sat there and let the days and years slip awayunheeded, for time is banished by music like that, and one wonders if itmight not even divert death. 

It was dark when we crossed the river homeward; the myriad lights fromheaven-climbing windows made an enchanted city in the sky. The evening, like the day, was warm, and some of the party left the ferry-cabin tolean over and watch the magic spectacle, the like of which is not to befound elsewhere on the earth. 

CCLXIV

"CAPTAIN STORMFIELD" IN PRINT

During the forty years or so that had elapsed since the publication ofthe "Gates Ajar" and the perpetration of Mark Twain's intended burlesque, built on Captain Ned Wakeman's dream, the Christian religion in its moreorthodox aspects had undergone some large modifications. It was nolonger regarded as dangerous to speak lightly of hell, or even to suggestthat the golden streets and jeweled architecture of the sky might beregarded as symbols of hope rather than exhibits of actual bullion andlapidary construction. Clemens re-read his extravaganza, CaptainStormfields Visit to Heaven, gave it a modernizing touch here and there, and handed it to his publishers, who must have agreed that it was nolonger dangerous, for it was promptly accepted and appeared in theDecember and January numbers (1907-8) of Harper's Magazine, and was alsoissued as a small book. If there were any readers who still found itblasphemous, or even irreverent, they did not say so; the letters thatcame--and they were a good many--expressed enjoyment and approval, also(some of them) a good deal of satisfaction that Mark Twain "had returnedto his earlier form. "

The publication of this story recalled to Clemens's mind another heresysomewhat similar which he had written during the winter of 1891 and 1892in Berlin. This was a dream of his own, in which he had set out on atrain with the evangelist Sam Jones and the Archbishop of Canterbury forthe other world. He had noticed that his ticket was to a differentdestination than the Archbishop's, and so, when the prelate nodded andfinally went to sleep, he changed the tickets in their hats withdisturbing results. Clemens thought a good deal of this fancy when hewrote it, and when Mrs. Clemens had refused to allow it to be printed hehad laboriously translated it into German, with some idea of publishingit surreptitiously; but his conscience had been too much for him. He hadconfessed, and even the German version had been suppressed. 

Clemens often allowed his fancy to play with the idea of the orthodoxheaven, its curiosities of architecture, and its employments ofcontinuous prayer, psalm-singing, and harpistry. 

"What a childish notion it was, " he said, "and how curious that only alittle while ago human beings were so willing to accept such fragileevidences about a place of so much importance. If we should findsomewhere to-day an ancient book containing an account of a beautiful andblooming tropical Paradise secreted in the center of eternal icebergs--anaccount written by men who did not even claim to have seen it themselves--no geographical society on earth would take any stock in that book, yetthat account would be quite as authentic as any we have of heaven. IfGod has such a place prepared for us, and really wanted us to know it, Hecould have found some better way than a book so liable to alterations andmisinterpretation. God has had no trouble to prove to man the laws ofthe constellations and the construction of the world, and such things asthat, none of which agree with His so-called book. As to a hereafter, wehave not the slightest evidence that there is any--no evidence thatappeals to logic and reason. I have never seen what to me seemed an atomof proof that there is a future life. "

Then, after a long pause, he added:

"And yet--I am strongly inclined to expect one. "

CCLXV

LOTOS CLUB HONORS

It was on January 11, 1908, that Mark Twain was given his last greatbanquet by the Lotos Club. The club was about to move again, intosplendid new quarters, and it wished to entertain him once more in itsold rooms. 

He wore white, and amid the throng of black-clad men was like a whitemoth among a horde of beetles. The room fairly swarmed with them, andthey seemed likely to overwhelm him. 

President Lawrence was toast-master of the evening, and he ended hiscustomary address by introducing Robert Porter, who had been Mark Twain'shost at Oxford. Porter told something of the great Oxford week, andended by introducing Mark Twain. It had been expected that Clemens wouldtell of his London experiences. Instead of doing this, he said he hadstarted a new kind of collection, a collection of compliments. He hadpicked up a number of valuable ones abroad and some at home. He readselections from them, and kept the company going with cheers andmerriment until just before the close of his speech. Then he repeated, in his most impressive manner, that stately conclusion of his Liverpoolspeech, and the room became still and the eyes of his hearers grew dim. It may have been even more moving than when originally given, for now theclosing words, "homeward bound, " had only the deeper meaning. 

Dr. John MacArthur followed with a speech that was as good a sermon asany he ever delivered, and closed it by saying:

"I do not want men to prepare for heaven, but to prepare to remain onearth, and it is such men as Mark Twain who make other men not fit todie, but fit to live. "

Andrew Carnegie also spoke, and Colonel Harvey, and as the speaking endedRobert Porter stepped up behind Clemens and threw over his shoulders thescarlet Oxford robe which had been surreptitiously brought, and placedthe mortar-board cap upon his head, while the diners vociferated theirapproval. Clemens was quite calm. 

"I like this, " he said, when the noise had subsided. "I like itssplendid color. I would dress that way all the time, if I dared. "

In the cab going home I mentioned the success of his speech, how well ithad been received. 

"Yes, " he said; "but then I have the advantage of knowing now that I amlikely to be favorably received, whatever I say. I know that myaudiences are warm and responseful. It is an immense advantage to feelthat. There are cold places in almost every speech, and if your audiencenotices them and becomes cool, you get a chill yourself in those zones, and it is hard to warm up again. Perhaps there haven't been so manylately; but I have been acquainted with them more than once. " And then Icould not help remembering that deadly Whittier birthday speech of morethan thirty years before--that bleak, arctic experience from beginning toend. 

"We have just time for four games, " he said, as we reached thebilliard-room; but there was no sign of stopping when the four games wereover. We were winning alternately, and neither noted the time. I wasleaving by an early train, and was willing to play all night. Themilk-wagons were rattling outside when he said:

"Well, perhaps we'd better quit now. It seems pretty early, though. " Ilooked at my watch. It was quarter to four, and we said good night. 

CCLXVI

A WINTER IN BERMUDA

Edmund Clarence Stedman died suddenly at his desk, January 18, 1908, andClemens, in response to telegrams, sent this message:

I do not wish to talk about it. He was a valued friend from days thatdate back thirty-five years. His loss stuns me and unfits me to speak. 

He recalled the New England dinners which he used to attend, and where hehad often met Stedman. 

"Those were great affairs, " he said. "They began early, and they endedearly. I used to go down from Hartford with the feeling that it wasn'tan all-night supper, and that it was going to be an enjoyable time. Choate and Depew and Stedman were in their prime then--we were all youngmen together. Their speeches were always worth listening to. Stedmanwas a prominent figure there. There don't seem to be any such men now--or any such occasions. "

Stedman was one of the last of the old literary group. Aldrich had diedthe year before. Howells and Clemens were the lingering "last leaves. "

Clemens gave some further luncheon entertainments to his friends, andadded the feature of "doe" luncheons--pretty affairs where, with ClaraClemens as hostess, were entertained a group of brilliant women, such asMrs. Kate Douglas Riggs, Geraldine Farrax, Mrs. Robert Collier, Mrs. Frank Doubleday, and others. I cannot report those luncheons, for I wasnot present, and the drift of the proceedings came to me later in toofragmentary a form to be used as history; but I gathered from Clemenshimself that he had done all of the talking, and I think they must havebeen very pleasant afternoons. Among the acknowledgments that followedone of these affairs is this characteristic word-play from Mrs. Riggs:

 N. B. --A lady who is invited to and attends a doe luncheon is, of course, a doe. The question is, if she attends two doe luncheons in succession is she a doe-doe? If so is she extinct and can never attend a third?

Luncheons and billiards, however, failed to give sufficient brightness tothe dull winter days, or to insure him against an impending bronchialattack, and toward the end of January he sailed away to Bermuda, whereskies were bluer and roadsides gay with bloom. His sojourn was briefthis time, but long enough to cure him, he said, and he came back full ofhappiness. He had been driving about over the island with a newlyadopted granddaughter, little Margaret Blackmer, whom he had met onemorning in the hotel dining-room. A part of his dictated story willconvey here this pretty experience. 

 My first day in Bermuda paid a dividend--in fact a double dividend: it broke the back of my cold and it added a jewel to my collection. As I entered the breakfast-room the first object I saw in that spacious and far-reaching place was a little girl seated solitary at a table for two. I bent down over her and patted her cheek and said:

 "I don't seem to remember your name; what is it?"

 By the sparkle in her brown eyes it amused her. She said:

 "Why, you've never known it, Mr. Clemens, because you've never seen me before. "

 "Why, that is true, now that I come to think; it certainly is true, and it must be one of the reasons why I have forgotten your name. But I remember it now perfectly--it's Mary. "

 She was amused again; amused beyond smiling; amused to a chuckle, and she said:

 "Oh no, it isn't; it's Margaret. "

 I feigned to be ashamed of my mistake and said:

 "Ah, well, I couldn't have made that mistake a few years ago; but I am old, and one of age's earliest infirmities is a damaged memory; but I am clearer now--clearer-headed--it all comes back to me just as if it were yesterday. It's Margaret Holcomb. "

 She was surprised into a laugh this time, the rippling laugh that a happy brook makes when it breaks out of the shade into the sunshine, and she said:

 "Oh, you are wrong again; you don't get anything right. It isn't Holcomb, it's Blackmer. "

 I was ashamed again, and confessed it; then:

 "How old are you, dear?"

 "Twelve; New-Year's. Twelve and a month. "

 We were close comrades-inseparables, in fact-for eight days. Every day we made pedestrian excursions--called them that anyway, and honestly they were intended for that, and that is what they would have been but for the persistent intrusion of a gray and grave and rough-coated donkey by the name of Maud. Maud was four feet long; she was mounted on four slender little stilts, and had ears that doubled her altitude when she stood them up straight. Her tender was a little bit of a cart with seat room for two in it, and you could fall out of it without knowing it, it was so close to the ground. This battery was in command of a nice, grave, dignified, gentlefaced little black boy whose age was about twelve, and whose name, for some reason or other, was Reginald. Reginald and Maud--I shall not easily forget those names, nor the combination they stood for. The trips going and coming were five or six miles, and it generally took us three hours to make it. This was because Maud set the pace. Whenever she detected an ascending grade she respected it; she stopped and said with her ears:

 "This is getting unsatisfactory. We will camp here. "

 The whole idea of these excursions was that Margaret and I should employ them for the gathering of strength, by walking, yet we were oftener in the cart than out of it. She drove and I superintended. In the course of the first excursions I found a beautiful little shell on the beach at Spanish Point; its hinge was old and dry, and the two halves came apart in my hand. I gave one of them to Margaret and said:

 "Now dear, sometime or other in the future I shall run across you somewhere, and it may turn out that it is not you at all, but will be some girl that only resembles you. I shall be saying to myself 'I know that this is a Margaret by the look of her, but I don't know for sure whether this is my Margaret or somebody else's'; but, no matter, I can soon find out, for I shall take my half shell out of my pocket and say, 'I think you are my Margaret, but I am not certain; if you are my Margaret you can produce the other half of this shell. '"

 Next morning when I entered the breakfast-room and saw the child I approached and scanned her searchingly all over, then said, sadly:

 "No, I am mistaken; it looks like my Margaret, --but it isn't, and I am so sorry. I shall go away and cry now. "

 Her eyes danced triumphantly, and she cried out:

 "No, you don't have to. There!" and she fetched out the identifying shell. 

 I was beside myself with gratitude and joyful surprise, and revealed it from every pore. The child could not have enjoyed this thrilling little drama more if we had been playing it on the stage. Many times afterward she played the chief part herself, pretending to be in doubt as to my identity and challenging me to produce my half of the shell. She was always hoping to catch me without it, but I always defeated that game--wherefore she came to recognize at last that I was not only old, but very smart. 

Sometimes, when they were not walking or driving, they sat on theveranda, and he prepared history-lessons for little Margaret by makinggrotesque figures on cards with numerous legs and arms and otherfantastic symbols end features to fix the length of some king's reign. For William the Conqueror, for instance, who reigned twenty-one years, hedrew a figure of eleven legs and ten arms. It was the proper method ofimpressing facts upon the mind of a child. It carried him back to thosedays at Elmira when he had arranged for his own little girls the game ofkings. A Miss Wallace, a friend of Margaret's, and usually one of thepedestrian party, has written a dainty book of those Bermudian days. --[Mark Twain and the Happy Islands, by Elizabeth Wallace. ]

Miss Wallace says:

 Margaret felt for him the deep affection that children have for an older person who understands them and treats them with respect. Mr. Clemens never talked down to her, but considered her opinions with a sweet dignity. 

There were some pretty sequels to the shell incident. After Mark Twainhad returned to New York, and Margaret was there, she called one day withher mother, and sent up her card. He sent back word, saying:

 "I seem to remember the name; but if this is really the person whom I think it is she can identify herself by a certain shell I once gave her, of which I have the other half. If the two halves fit, I shall know that this is the same little Margaret that I remember. "

The message went down, and the other half of the shell was promptly sentup. Mark Twain had the two half-shells incised firmly in gold, and oneof these he wore on his watch-fob, and sent the other to Margaret. 

He afterward corresponded with Margaret, and once wrote her:

 I'm already making mistakes. When I was in New York, six weeks ago, I was on a corner of Fifth Avenue and I saw a small girl--not a big one--start across from the opposite corner, and I exclaimed to myself joyfully, "That is certainly my Margaret!" so I rushed to meet her. But as she came nearer I began to doubt, and said to myself, "It's a Margaret--that is plain enough--but I'm afraid it is somebody else's. " So when I was passing her I held my shell so she couldn't help but see it. Dear, she only glanced at it and passed on! I wondered if she could have overlooked it. It seemed best to find out; so I turned and followed and caught up with her, and said, deferentially; "Dear Miss, I already know your first name by the look of you, but would you mind telling me your other one?" She was vexed and said pretty sharply, "It's Douglas, if you're so anxious to know. I know your name by your looks, and I'd advise you to shut yourself up with your pen and ink and write some more rubbish. I am surprised that they allow you to run' at large. You are likely to get run over by a baby-carriage any time. Run along now and don't let the cows bite you. "

 What an idea! There aren't any cows in Fifth Avenue. But I didn't smile; I didn't let on to perceive how uncultured she was. She was from the country, of course, and didn't know what a comical blunder. She was making. 

Mr. Rogers's health was very poor that winter, and Clemens urged him totry Bermuda, and offered to go back with him; so they sailed away to thesummer island, and though Margaret was gone, there was other entertainingcompany--other granddaughters to be adopted, and new friends and oldfriends, and diversions of many sorts. Mr. Rogers's son-in-law, WilliamEvarts Benjamin, came down and joined the little group. It was one ofMark Twain's real holidays. Mr. Rogers's health improved rapidly, andMark Twain was in fine trim. To Mrs. Rogers, at the end of the firstweek, he wrote:

 DEAR MRS. ROGERS, He is getting along splendidly! This was the very place for him. He enjoys himself & is as quarrelsome as a cat. 

 But he will get a backset if Benjamin goes home. Benjamin is the brightest man in these regions, & the best company. Bright? He is much more than that, he is brilliant. He keeps the crowd intensely alive. 

 With love & all good wishes. S. L. C. 

Mark Twain and Henry Rogers were much together and much observed. Theywere often referred to as "the King" and "the Rajah, " and it was always aquestion whether it was "the King" who took care of "the Rajah, " or viceversa. There was generally a group to gather around them, and Clemenswas sure of an attentive audience, whether he wanted to air hisphilosophies, his views of the human race, or to read aloud from theverses of Kipling. 

"I am not fond of all poetry, " he would say; "but there's something inKipling that appeals to me. I guess he's just about my level. "

Miss Wallace recalls certain Kipling readings in his room, when hisfriends gathered to listen. 

 On those Kipling evenings the 'mise-en-scene' was a striking one. The bare hotel room, the pine woodwork and pine furniture, loose windows which rattled in the sea-wind. Once in a while a gust of asthmatic music from the spiritless orchestra downstairs came up the hallway. Yellow, unprotected gas-lights burned uncertainly, and Mark Twain in the midst of this lay on his bed (there was no couch) still in his white serge suit, with the light from the jet shining down on the crown of his silver hair, making it gleam and glisten like frosted threads. 

In one hand he held his book, in the other he had his pipe, which he usedprincipally to gesture with in the most dramatic passages. 

Margaret's small successors became the earliest members of the Angel FishClub, which Clemens concluded to organize after a visit to thespectacular Bermuda aquarium. The pretty angel-fish suggested youth andfeminine beauty to him, and his adopted granddaughters became angel-fishto him from that time forward. He bought little enamel angel-fish pins, and carried a number of them with him most of the time, so that he couldcreate membership on short notice. It was just another of the harmlessand happy diversions of his gentler side. He was always fond of youthand freshness. He regarded the decrepitude of old age as an unnecessarypart of life. Often he said:

"If I had been helping the Almighty when, He created man, I would havehad Him begin at the other end, and start human beings with old age. Howmuch better it would have been to start old and have all the bitternessand blindness of age in the beginning! One would not mind then if hewere looking forward to a joyful youth. Think of the joyous prospect ofgrowing young instead of old! Think of looking forward to eighteeninstead of eighty! Yes, the Almighty made a poor job of it. I wish Hehad invited my assistance. "

To one of the angel fish he wrote, just after his return:

 I miss you, dear. I miss Bermuda, too, but not so much as I miss you; for you were rare, and occasional and select, and Ltd. ; whereas Bermuda's charms and, graciousnesses were free and common and unrestricted--like the rain, you know, which falls upon the just and the unjust alike; a thing which would not happen if I were superintending the rain's affairs. No, I would rain softly and sweetly upon the just, but whenever I caught a sample of the unjust outdoors I would drown him. 

CCLXVII

VIEWS AND ADDRESSES

 [As I am beginning this chapter, April 16, 1912, the news comes of the loss, on her first trip, of the great White Star Line steamer Titanic, with the destruction of many passengers, among whom are Frank D. Millet, William T. Stead, Isadore Straus, John Jacob Astor, and other distinguished men. They died as heroes, remaining with the ship in order that the women and children might be saved. 

 It was the kind of death Frank Millet would have wished to die. He was always a soldier--a knight. He has appeared from time to time in these pages, for he was a dear friend of the Clemens household. One of America's foremost painters; at the time of his death he was head of the American Academy of Arts in Rome. ]

Mark Twain made a number of addresses during the spring of 1908. He spokeat the Cartoonists' dinner, very soon after his return from Bermuda; hespoke at the Booksellers' banquet, expressing his debt of obligation tothose who had published and sold his books; he delivered a fine addressat the dinner given by the British Schools and University Club atDelmonico's, May 25th, in honor of Queen Victoria's birthday. In thatspeech he paid high tribute to the Queen for her attitude toward America, during the crisis of the Civil Wax, and to her royal consort, PrinceAlbert. 

 What she did for us in America in our time of storm and stress we shall not forget, and whenever we call it to mind we shall always gratefully remember the wise and righteous mind that guided her in it and sustained and supported her--Prince Albert's. We need not talk any idle talk here to-night about either possible or impossible war between two countries; there will be no war while we remain sane and the son of Victoria and Albert sits upon the throne. In conclusion, I believe I may justly claim to utter the voice of my country in saying that we hold him in deep honor, and also in cordially wishing him a long life and a happy reign. 

But perhaps his most impressive appearance was at the dedication of thegreat City College (May 14, 1908), where President John Finley, who hadbeen struggling along with insufficient room, was to have space at lastfor his freer and fuller educational undertakings. A great number ofhonored scholars, statesmen, and diplomats assembled on the collegecampus, a spacious open court surrounded by stately college architectureof medieval design. These distinguished guests were clad in theiracademic robes, and the procession could not have been widely differentfrom that one at Oxford of a year before. But there was something ratherfearsome about it, too. A kind of scaffolding had been reared in thecenter of the campus for the ceremonies; and when those grave men intheir robes of state stood grouped upon it the picture was strikinglysuggestive of one of George Cruikshank's drawings of an execution sceneat the Tower of London. Many of the robes were black--these would be thepriests--and the few scarlet ones would be the cardinals who might haveassembled for some royal martyrdom. There was a bright May sunlight overit all, one of those still, cool brightnesses which served to heightenthe weird effect. I am sure that others felt it besides myself, foreverybody seemed wordless and awed, even at times when there was nooccasion for silence. There was something of another age about the wholesetting, to say the least. 

We left the place in a motor-car, a crowd of boys following after. AsClemens got in they gathered around the car and gave the college yell, ending with "Twain! Twain! Twain!" and added three cheers for TomSawyer, Huck Finn, and Pudd'nhead Wilson. They called for a speech, buthe only said a few words in apology for not granting their request. Hemade a speech to them that night at the Waldorf--where he proposed forthe City College a chair of citizenship, an idea which met with heartyapplause. 

In the same address he referred to the "God Trust" motto on the coins, and spoke approvingly of the President's order for its removal. 

 We do not trust in God, in the important matters of life, and not even a minister of the Gospel will take any coin for a cent more than its accepted value because of that motto. If cholera should ever reach these shores we should probably pray to be delivered from the plague, but we would put our main trust in the Board of Health. 

Next morning, commenting on the report of this speech, he said:

"If only the reporters would not try to improve on what I say. They seemto miss the fact that the very art of saying a thing effectively is inits delicacy, and as they can't reproduce the manner and intonation intype they make it emphatic and clumsy in trying to convey it to thereader. "

I pleaded that the reporters were often young men, eager, and unmellowedin their sense of literary art. 

"Yes, " he agreed, "they are so afraid their readers won't see my goodpoints that they set up red flags to mark them and beat a gong. Theymean well, but I wish they wouldn't do it. "

He referred to the portion of his speech concerning the motto on thecoins. He had freely expressed similar sentiments on other publicoccasions, and he had received a letter criticizing him for saying thatwe do not really trust in God in any financial matter. 

"I wanted to answer it, " he said; "but I destroyed it. It didn't seemworth noticing. "

I asked how the motto had originated. 

"About 1853 some idiot in Congress wanted to announce to the world thatthis was a religious nation, and proposed putting it there, and no otherCongressman had courage enough to oppose it, of course. It took couragein those days to do a thing like that; but I think the same thing wouldhappen to-day. "

"Still the country has become broader. It took a brave man before theCivil War to confess he had read the 'Age of Reason'. "

"So it did, and yet that seems a mild book now. I read it first when Iwas a cub pilot, read it with fear and hesitation, but marveling at itsfearlessness and wonderful power. I read it again a year or two ago, forsome reason, and was amazed to see how tame it had become. It seemedthat Paine was apologizing everywhere for hurting the feelings of thereader. "

He drifted, naturally, into a discussion of the Knickerbocker TrustCompany's suspension, which had tied up some fifty-five thousand dollarsof his capital, and wondered how many were trusting in God for the returnof these imperiled sums. Clemens himself, at this time, did not expectto come out whole from that disaster. He had said very little when thenews came, though it meant that his immediate fortunes were locked up, and it came near stopping the building activities at Redding. It wasonly the smaller things of life that irritated him. He often met largecalamities with a serenity which almost resembled indifference. In theKnickerbocker situation he even found humor as time passed, and wrote anumber of gay letters, some of which found their way into print. 

It should be added that in the end there was no loss to any of theKnickerbocker depositors. 

CCLXVIII

REDDING

The building of the new home at Redding had been going steadily forwardfor something more than a year. John Mead Howells had made the plans; W. W. Sunderland and his son Philip, of Danbury, Connecticut, were thebuilders, and in the absence of Miss Clemens, then on a concert tour, Mark Twain's secretary, Miss I. V. Lyon, had superintended thefurnishing. 

"Innocence at Home, " as the place was originally named, was to be readyfor its occupant in June, with every detail in place, as he desired. Hehad never visited Redding; he had scarcely even glanced at the plans ordiscussed any of the decorations of the new home. He had required onlythat there should be one great living-room for the orchestrelle, andanother big room for the billiard-table, with plenty of accommodationsfor guests. He had required that the billiard-room be red, for somethingin his nature answered to the warm luxury of that color, particularly inmoments of diversion. Besides, his other billiard-rooms had been red, and such association may not be lightly disregarded. His one otherrequirement was that the place should be complete. 

"I don't want to see it, " he said, "until the cat is purring on thehearth. "

Howells says:

"He had grown so weary of change, and so indifferent to it, that he waswithout interest. "

But it was rather, I think, that he was afraid of losing interest bybecoming wearied with details which were likely to exasperate him; also, he wanted the dramatic surprise of walking into a home that had beenconjured into existence as with a word. 

It was expected that the move would be made early in the month; but therewere delays, and it was not until the 18th of June that he tookpossession. 

The plan, at this time, was only to use the Redding place as a summerresidence, and the Fifth Avenue house was not dismantled. A few daysbefore the 18th the servants, with one exception, were taken up to thenew house, Clemens and myself remaining in the loneliness of No. 21, attending to the letters in the morning and playing billiards the rest ofthe time, waiting for the appointed day and train. It was really apleasant three days. He invented a new game, and we were riotous andlaughed as loudly as we pleased. I think he talked very little of thenew home which he was so soon to see. It was referred to no oftener thanonce or twice a day, and then I believe only in connection with certainof the billiard-room arrangements. I have wondered since what picture ofit he could have had in his mind, for he had never seen a photograph. Hehad a general idea that it was built upon a hill, and that itsarchitecture was of the Italian villa order. I confess I had moments ofanxiety, for I had selected the land for him, and had been more or lessaccessory otherwise. I did not really worry, for I knew how beautifuland peaceful it all was; also something of his taste and needs. 

It had been a dry spring, and country roads were dusty, so that those whowere responsible had been praying for rain, to be followed by a pleasantday for his arrival. Both petitions were granted; June 18th would fallon Thursday, and Monday night there came a good, thorough, and refreshingshower that washed the vegetation clean and laid the dust. The morningof the 18th was bright and sunny and cool. Clemens was up and shaved bysix o'clock in order to be in time, though the train did not leave untilfour in the afternoon--an express newly timed to stop at Redding--itsfirst trip scheduled for the day of Mark Twain's arrival. 

We were still playing billiards when word was brought up that the cab waswaiting. My daughter, Louise, whose school on Long Island had closedthat day, was with us. Clemens wore his white flannels and a Panama hat, and at the station a group quickly collected, reporters and others, tointerview him and speed him to his new home. He was cordial andtalkative, and quite evidently full of pleasant anticipation. A reporteror two and a special photographer came along, to be present at hisarrival. 

The new, quick train, the green, flying landscape, with glimpses of theSound and white sails, the hillsides and clear streams becoming rapidlysteeper and dearer as we turned northward: all seemed to gratify him, andwhen he spoke at all it was approvingly. The hour and a half required tocover the sixty miles of distance seemed very short. As the train sloweddown for the Redding station, he said:

"We'll leave this box of candy"--he had bought a large box on the way--"those colored porters sometimes like candy, and we can get some more. "

He drew out a great handful of silver. 

"Give them something--give everybody liberally that does any service. "

There was a sort of open-air reception in waiting. Redding hadrecognized the occasion as historic. A varied assemblage of vehiclesfestooned with flowers had gathered to offer a gallant country welcome. 

It was now a little before six o'clock of that long June day, still anddreamlike; and to the people assembled there may have been somethingwhich was not quite reality in the scene. There was a tendency to bevery still. They nodded, waved their hands to him, smiled, and lookedtheir fill; but a spell lay upon them, and they did not cheer. It wouldhave been a pity if they had done so. A noise, and the illusion wouldhave been shattered. 

His carriage led away on the three-mile drive to the house on thehilltop, and the floral turnout fell in behind. No first impression of afair land could have come at a sweeter time. Hillsides were green, fields were white with daisies, dog-wood and laurel shone among thetrees. And over all was the blue sky, and everywhere the fragrance ofJune. 

He was very quiet as we drove along. Once with gentle humor, lookingover a white daisy field, he said:

"That is buckwheat. I always recognize buckwheat when I see it. I wishI knew as much about other things as I know about buckwheat. It seems tobe very plentiful here; it even grows by the roadside. " And a littlelater: "This is the kind of a road I like; a good country road throughthe woods. "

The water was flowing over the mill-dam where the road crosses theSaugatuck, and he expressed approval of that clear, picturesque littleriver, one of those charming Connecticut streams. A little farther on abrook cascaded down the hillside, and he compared it with some of thetiny streams of Switzerland, I believe the Giessbach. The lane that ledto the new home opened just above, and as he entered the leafy way hesaid, "This is just the kind of a lane I like, " thus completing hisacceptance of everything but the house and the location. 

The last of the procession had dropped away at the entrance of the lane, and he was alone with those who had most anxiety for his verdict. Theyhad not long to wait. As the carriage ascended higher to the open viewhe looked away, across the Saugatuck Valley to the nestling village andchurch-spire and farm-houses, and to the distant hills, and declared theland to be a good land and beautiful--a spot to satisfy one's soul. Thencame the house--simple and severe in its architecture--an Italian villa, such as he had known in Florence, adapted now to American climate andneeds. The scars of building had not all healed yet, but close to thehouse waved green grass and blooming flowers that might have been therealways. Neither did the house itself look new. The soft, gray stuccohad taken on a tone that melted into the sky and foliage of itsbackground. At the entrance his domestic staff waited to greet him, andthen he stepped across the threshold into the wide hall and stood in hisown home for the first time in seventeen years. It was an anxiousmoment, and no one spoke immediately. But presently his eye had taken inthe satisfying harmony of the place and followed on through the widedoors that led to the dining-room--on through the open French windows toan enchanting vista of tree-tops and distant farmside and blue hills. Hesaid, very gently:

"How beautiful it all is? I did not think it could be as beautiful asthis. "

He was taken through the rooms; the great living-room at one end of thehall--a room on the walls of which there was no picture, but onlycolor-harmony--and at the other end of the hall, the splendid, glowingbilliard-room, where hung all the pictures in which he took delight. Thento the floor above, with its spacious apartments and a continuation ofcolor--welcome and concord, the windows open to the pleasant eveninghills. When he had seen it all--the natural Italian garden below theterraces; the loggia, whose arches framed landscape vistas and formed arare picture-gallery; when he had completed the round and stood in thebilliard-room--his especial domain--once more he said, as a finalverdict:

"It is a perfect house--perfect, so far as I can see, in every detail. Itmight have been here always. "

He was at home there from that moment--absolutely, marvelously at home, for he fitted the setting perfectly, and there was not a hitch or flaw inhis adaptation. To see him over the billiard-table, five minutes later, one could easily fancy that Mark Twain, as well as the house, had "beenthere always. " Only the presence of his daughters was needed now tocomplete his satisfaction in everything. 

There were guests that first evening--a small home dinner-party--and soperfect were the appointments and service, that one not knowing wouldscarcely have imagined it to be the first dinner served in that lovelyroom. A little later; at the foot of the garden of bay and cedar, neighbors, inspired by Dan Beard, who had recently located near by, setoff some fireworks. Clemens stepped out on the terrace and saw rocketsclimbing through the summer sky to announce his arrival. 

"I wonder why they all go to so much trouble for me, " he said, softly. "Inever go to any trouble for anybody"--a statement which all who heard it, and all his multitude of readers in every land, stood ready to deny. 

That first evening closed with billiards--boisterous, triumphantbilliards--and when with midnight the day ended and the cues were set inthe rack, there was none to say that Mark Twain's first day in his newhome had not been a happy one. 

CCLXIX

FIRST DAYS AT STORMFIELD

I went up next afternoon, for I knew how he dreaded loneliness. Weplayed billiards for a time, then set out for a walk, following the longdrive to the leafy lane that led to my own property. Presently he said:

"In one way I am sorry I did not see this place sooner. I never want toleave it again. If I had known it was so beautiful I should have vacatedthe house in town and moved up here permanently. "

I suggested that he could still do so, if he chose, and he enteredimmediately into the idea. By and by we turned down a deserted road, grassy and beautiful, that ran along his land. At one side was a slopefacing the west, and dotted with the slender, cypress-like cedars of NewEngland. He had asked if that were part of his land, and on being toldit was he said:

"I would like Howells to have a house there. We must try to give that toHowells. "

At the foot of the hill we came to a brook and followed it into a meadow. I told him that I had often caught fine trout there, and that soon Iwould bring in some for breakfast. He answered:

"Yes, I should like that. I don't care to catch them any more myself. Ilike them very hot. "

We passed through some woods and came out near my own ancient littlehouse. He noticed it and said:

"The man who built that had some memory of Greece in his mind when he puton that little porch with those columns. "

My second daughter, Frances, was coming from a distant school on theevening train, and the carriage was starting just then to bring her. Isuggested that perhaps he would find it pleasant to make the drive. 

"Yes, " he agreed, "I should enjoy that. "

So I took the reins, and he picked up little Joy, who came running outjust then, and climbed into the back seat. It was another beautifulevening, and he was in a talkative humor. Joy pointed out a small turtlein the road, and he said:

"That is a wild turtle. Do you think you could teach it arithmetic?"

Joy was uncertain. 

"Well, " he went on, "you ought to get an arithmetic--a little ten-centarithmetic--and teach that turtle. "

We passed some swampy woods, rather dim and junglelike. 

"Those, " he said, "are elephant woods. "

But Joy answered:

"They are fairy woods. The fairies are there, but you can't see thembecause they wear magic cloaks. "

He said: "I wish I had one of those magic cloaks, sometimes. I had oneonce, but it is worn out now. "

Joy looked at him reverently, as one who had once been the owner of apiece of fairyland. 

It was a sweet drive to and from the village. There are none too manysuch evenings in a lifetime. Colonel Harvey's little daughter, Dorothy, came up a day or two later, and with my daughter Louise spent the firstweek with him in the new home. They were created "Angel-Fishes"--thefirst in the new aquarium; that is to say, the billiard-room, where hefollowed out the idea by hanging a row of colored prints of Bermudafishes in a sort of frieze around the walls. Each visiting member wasrequired to select one as her particular patron fish and he wrote hername upon it. It was his delight to gather his juvenile guests in thisroom and teach them the science of billiard angles; but it was sodifficult to resist taking the cue and making plays himself that he wasrequired to stand on a little platform and give instruction just out ofreach. His snowy flannels and gleaming white hair, against those richred walls, with those small, summer-clad players, made a pretty picture. 

The place did not retain its original name. He declared that it wouldalways be "Innocence at Home" to the angel-fish visitors, but that thetitle didn't remain continuously appropriate. The money which he hadderived from Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven had been used to buildthe loggia wing, and he considered the name of "Stormfield" as asubstitute. When, presently, the summer storms gathered on thatrock-bound, open hill, with its wide reaches of vine and shrub-wild, fierce storms that bent the birch and cedar, and strained at the bay andhuckleberry, with lightning and turbulent wind and thunder, followed bythe charging rain--the name seemed to become peculiarly appropriate. Standing with his head bared to the tumult, his white hair tossing in theblast, and looking out upon the wide splendor of the spectacle, herechristened the place, and "Stormfield" it became and remained. 

The last day of Mark Twain's first week in Redding, June 25th, wassaddened by the news of the death of Grover Cleveland at his home inPrinceton, New Jersey. Clemens had always been an ardent Clevelandadmirer, and to Mrs. Cleveland now he sent this word of condolence--

 Your husband was a man I knew and loved and honored for twenty-five years. I mourn with you. 

And once during the evening he said:

"He was one of our two or three real Presidents. There is none to takehis place. "

CCLXX

THE ALDRICH MEMORIAL

At the end of June came the dedication at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, ofthe Thomas Bailey Aldrich Memorial Museum, which the poet's wife hadestablished there in the old Aldrich homestead. It was hot weather. Wewere obliged to take a rather poor train from South Norwalk, and Clemenswas silent and gloomy most of the way to Boston. Once there, however, lodged in a cool and comfortable hotel, matters improved. He had broughtalong for reading the old copy of Sir Thomas Malory's Arthur Tales, andafter dinner he took off his clothes and climbed into bed and sat up andread aloud from those stately legends, with comments that I wish I couldremember now, only stopping at last when overpowered with sleep. 

We went on a special train to Portsmouth next morning through the summerheat, and assembled, with those who were to speak, in the back portion ofthe opera-house, behind the scenes: Clemens was genial and good-naturedwith all the discomfort of it; and he liked to fancy, with Howells, whohad come over from Kittery Point, how Aldrich must be amused at the wholecircumstance if he could see them punishing themselves to do honor to hismemory. Richard Watson Gilder was there, and Hamilton Mabie; alsoGovernor Floyd of New Hampshire; Colonel Higginson, Robert Bridges, andother distinguished men. We got to the more open atmosphere of the stagepresently, and the exercises began. Clemens was last on the program. 

The others had all said handsome, serious things, and Clemens himself hadmentally prepared something of the sort; but when his turn came, and herose to speak, a sudden reaction must have set in, for he delivered anaddress that certainly would have delighted Aldrich living, and must havedelighted him dead, if he could hear it. It was full of the mostcharming humor, delicate, refreshing, and spontaneous. The audience, that had been maintaining a proper gravity throughout, showed itsappreciation in ripples of merriment that grew presently into genuinewaves of laughter. He spoke out his regret for having worn blackclothes. It was a mistake, he said, to consider this a solemn time--Aldrich would not have wished it to be so considered. He had been aman who loved humor and brightness and wit, and had helped to make lifemerry and delightful. Certainly, if he could know, he would not wishthis dedication of his own home to be a lugubrious, smileless occasion. Outside, when the services were ended, the venerable juvenile writer, J. T. Trowbridge, came up to Clemens with extended hand. Clemens said:"Trowbridge, are you still alive? You must be a thousand years old. Why, I listened to your stories while I was being rocked in the cradle. "Trowbridge said:

"Mark, there's some mistake. My earliest infant smile was wakened withone of your jokes. "

They stood side by side against a fence in the blazing sun and werephotographed--an interesting picture. 

We returned to Boston that evening. Clemens did not wish to hurry in thesummer heat, and we remained another day quietly sight-seeing, anddriving around and around Commonwealth Avenue in a victoria in the coolof the evening. Once, remembering Aldrich, he said:

"I was just planning Tom Sawyer when he was beginning the 'Story of a BadBoy'. When I heard that he was writing that I thought of giving up mine, but Aldrich insisted that it would be a foolish thing to do. He thoughtmy Missouri boy could not by any chance conflict with his boy of NewEngland, and of course he was right. "

He spoke of how great literary minds usually came along in company. Hesaid:

"Now and then, on the stream of time, small gobs of that thing which wecall genius drift down, and a few of these lodge at some particularpoint, and others collect about them and make a sort of intellectualisland--a towhead, as they say on the river--such an accumulation ofintellect we call a group, or school, and name it. 

"Thirty years ago there was the Cambridge group. Now there's been stillanother, which included Aldrich and Howells and Stedman and Cable. Itwill soon be gone. I suppose they will have to name it by and by. "

He pointed out houses here and there of people he had known and visitedin other days. The driver was very anxious to go farther, to other andmore distinguished sights. Clemens mildly but firmly refused anyvariation of the program, and so we kept on driving around and around theshaded loop of Beacon Street until dusk fell and the lights began totwinkle among the trees. 

CCLXXI

DEATH OF "SAM" MOFFETT

Clemens' next absence from Redding came on August 1, 1908, when thesudden and shocking news was received of the drowning of his nephew, Samuel E. Moffett, in the surf of the Jersey shore. Moffett was hisnearest male relative, and a man of fine intellect and talents. He wassuperior in those qualities which men love--he was large-minded andlarge-hearted, and of noble ideals. With much of the same sense of humorwhich had made his uncle's fame, he had what was really an abnormalfaculty of acquiring and retaining encyclopedic data. Once as a child hehad visited Hartford when Clemens was laboring over his history game. Theboy was much interested, and asked permission to help. His unclewillingly consented, and referred him to the library for his facts. Buthe did not need to consult the books; he already had English historystored away, and knew where to find every detail of it. At the time ofhis death Moffett held an important editorial position on Collier'sWeekly. 

Clemens was fond and proud of his nephew. Returning from the funeral, hewas much depressed, and a day or two later became really ill. He was inbed for a few days, resting, he said, after the intense heat of thejourney. Then he was about again and proposed billiards as a diversion. We were all alone one very still, warm August afternoon playing, when hesuddenly said:

"I feel a little dizzy; I will sit down a moment. "

I brought him a glass of water and he seemed to recover, but when he roseand started to play I thought he had a dazed look. He said:

"I have lost my memory. I don't know which is my ball. I don't knowwhat game we are playing. "

But immediately this condition passed, and we thought little of it, considering it merely a phase of biliousness due to his recent journey. Ihave been told since, by eminent practitioners, that it was the firstindication of a more serious malady. 

He became apparently quite himself again and showed his usual vigor-lightof step and movement, able to skip up and down stairs as heretofore. Ina letter to Mrs. Crane, August 12th, he spoke of recent happenings:

 DEAR AUNT SUE, --It was a most moving, a most heartbreaking sight, the spectacle of that stunned & crushed & inconsolable family. I came back here in bad shape, & had a bilious collapse, but I am all right again, though the doctor from New York has given peremptory orders that I am not to stir from here before frost. O fortunate Sam Moffett! fortunate Livy Clemens! doubly fortunate Susy! Those swords go through & through my heart, but there is never a moment that I am not glad, for the sake of the dead, that they have escaped. 

 How Livy would love this place! How her very soul would steep itself thankfully in this peace, this tranquillity, this deep stillness, this dreamy expanse of woodsy hill & valley! You must come, Aunt Sue, & stay with us a real good visit. Since June 26 we have had 21 guests, & they have all liked it and said they would come again. 

To Howells, on the same day, he wrote:

 Won't you & Mrs. Howells & Mildred come & give us as many days as you can spare & examine John's triumph? It is the most satisfactory house I am acquainted with, & the most satisfactorily situated . . . . I have dismissed my stenographer, & have entered upon a holiday whose other end is the cemetery. 

CCLXXII

STORMFIELD ADVENTURES

Clemens had fully decided, by this time, to live the year round in theretirement at Stormfield, and the house at 21 Fifth Avenue was beingdismantled. He had also, as he said, given up his dictations for thetime, at least, after continuing them, with more or less regularity, fora period of two and a half years, during which he had piled up about halfa million words of comment and reminiscence. His general idea had beento add portions of this matter to his earlier books as the copyrightsexpired, to give them new life and interest, and he felt that he hadplenty now for any such purpose. 

He gave his time mainly to his guests, his billiards, and his reading, though of course he could not keep from writing on this subject and thatas the fancy moved him, and a drawer in one of his dressers began toaccumulate fresh though usually fragmentary manuscripts. . . He read thedaily paper, but he no longer took the keen, restless interest in publicaffairs. New York politics did not concern him any more, and nationalpolitics not much. When the Evening Post wrote him concerning theadvisability of renominating Governor Hughes he replied:

 If you had asked me two months ago my answer would have been prompt & loud & strong: yes, I want Governor Hughes renominated. But it is too late, & my mouth is closed. I have become a citizen & taxpayer of Connecticut, & could not now, without impertinence, meddle in matters which are none of my business. I could not do it with impertinence without trespassing on the monopoly of another. 

Howells speaks of Mark Twain's "absolute content" with his new home, andthese are the proper words' to express it. He was like a storm-beatenship that had drifted at last into a serene South Sea haven. 

The days began and ended in tranquillity. There were no special morningregulations: One could have his breakfast at any time and at almost anyplace. He could have it in bed if he liked, or in the loggia orlivingroom, or billiard-room. He might even have it in the diningroom, or on the terrace, just outside. Guests--there were usually guests--might suit their convenience in this matter--also as to the forenoons. The afternoon brought games--that is, billiards, provided the guest knewbilliards, otherwise hearts. Those two games were his safety-valves, andwhile there were no printed requirements relating to them the unwrittencode of Stormfield provided that guests, of whatever age or previousfaith, should engage in one or both of these diversions. 

Clemens, who usually spent his forenoon in bed with his reading and hisletters, came to the green table of skill and chance eager for the onset;if the fates were kindly, he approved of them openly. If not--well, thefates were old enough to know better, and, as heretofore, had to take theconsequences. Sometimes, when the weather was fine and there were nogames (this was likely to be on Sunday afternoons), there were drivesamong the hills and along the Saugatuck through the Bedding Glen. 

The cat was always "purring on the hearth" at Stormfield--several cats--for Mark Twain's fondness for this clean, intelligent domestic animalremained, to the end, one of his happiest characteristics. There werenever too many cats at Stormfield, and the "hearth" included the entirehouse, even the billiard-table. When, as was likely to happen at anytime during the game, the kittens Sinbad, or Danbury, or Billiards woulddecide to hop up and play with the balls, or sit in the pockets and grabat them as they went by, the game simply added this element of chance, and the uninvited player was not disturbed. The cats really ownedStormfield; any one could tell that from their deportment. Mark Twainheld the title deeds; but it was Danbury and Sinbad and the others thatpossessed the premises. They occupied any portion of the house or itsfurnishings at will, and they never failed to attract attention. MarkTwain might be preoccupied and indifferent to the comings and goings ofother members of the household; but no matter what he was doing, letDanbury appear in the offing and he was observed and greeted with duedeference, and complimented and made comfortable. Clemens would arisefrom the table and carry certain choice food out on the terrace toTammany, and be satisfied with almost no acknowledgment by way ofappreciation. One could not imagine any home of Mark Twain where thecats were not supreme. In the evening, as at 21 Fifth Avenue, there wasmusic--the stately measures of the orchestrelle--while Mark Twain smokedand mingled unusual speculation with long, long backward dreams. 

It was three months from the day of arrival in Redding that some guestscame to Stormfield without invitation--two burglars, who were carryingoff some bundles of silver when they were discovered. Claude, thebutler, fired a pistol after them to hasten their departure, and Clemens, wakened by the shots, thought the family was opening champagne and wentto sleep again. 

It was far in the night; but neighbor H. A. Lounsbury and Deputy-SheriffBanks were notified, and by morning the thieves were captured, thoughonly after a pretty desperate encounter, during which the officerreceived a bullet-wound. Lounsbury and a Stormfield guest had trackedthem in the dark with a lantern to Bethel, a distance of some sevenmiles. The thieves, also their pursuers, had boarded the train there. Sheriff Banks was waiting at the West Redding station when the train camedown, and there the capture was made. It was a remarkably prompt andshrewd piece of work. Clemens gave credit for its success chiefly toLounsbury, whose talents in many fields always impressed him. Thethieves were taken to the Redding Town Hall for a preliminary healing. Subsequently they received severe sentences. 

Clemens tacked this notice on his front door:

 NOTICE

 TO THE NEXT BURGLAR

 There is nothing but plated ware in this house now and henceforth. 

 You will find it in that brass thing in the dining-room over in the corner by the basket of kittens. 

 If you want the basket put the kittens in the brass thing. Do not make a noise--it disturbs the family. 

 You will find rubbers in the front hall by that thing which has the umbrellas in it, chiffonnier, I think they call it, or pergola, or something like that. 

 Please close the door when you go away!

 Very truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

CCLXXIII

STORMFIELD PHILOSOPHIES

Now came the tranquil days of the Connecticut autumn. The change of thelandscape colors was a constant delight to Mark Twain. There wereseveral large windows in his room, and he called them hispicture-gallery. The window-panes were small, and each formed a separatepicture of its own that was changing almost hourly. The red tones thatbegan to run through the foliage; the red berry bushes; the fading grass, and the little touches of sparkling frost that came every now and then atearly morning; the background of distant blue hills and changingskies-these things gave his gallery a multitude of variation that noart-museums could furnish. He loved it all, and he loved to walk out init, pacing up and down the terrace, or the long path that led to thepergola at the foot of a natural garden. If a friend came, he waswilling to walk much farther; and we often descended the hill in onedirection or another, though usually going toward the "gorge, " a romanticspot where a clear brook found its way through a deep and ratherdangerous-looking chasm. Once he was persuaded to descend into thisfairy-like place, for it was well worth exploring; but his footing was nolonger sure and he did not go far. 

He liked better to sit on the grass-grown, rocky arch above and look downinto it, and let his talk follow his mood. He liked to contemplate thegeology of his surroundings, the record of the ageless periods ofconstruction required to build the world. The marvels of science alwaysappealed to him. He reveled in the thought of the almost limitlessstretches of time, the millions upon millions of years that had beenrequired for this stratum and that--he liked to amaze himself with thesounding figures. I remember him expressing a wish to see the GrandCanon of Arizona, where, on perpendicular walls six thousand feet high, the long story of geological creation is written. I had stopped thereduring my Western trip of the previous year, and I told him something ofits wonders. I urged him to see them for himself, offering to go withhim. He said:

"I should enjoy that; but the railroad journey is so far and I shouldhave no peace. The papers would get hold of it, and I would have to makespeeches and be interviewed, and I never want to do any of those thingsagain. "

I suggested that the railroads would probably be glad to place a privatecar at his service, so that he might travel in comfort; but he shook hishead. 

"That would only make me more conspicuous. "

"How about a disguise?"

"Yes, " he said, "I might put on a red wig and false whiskers and changemy name, but I couldn't disguise my drawling speech and they'd find meout. "

It was amusing, but it was rather sad, too. His fame had deprived him ofvalued privileges. 

He talked of many things during these little excursions. Once he toldhow he had successively advised his nephew, Moffett, in the matter ofobtaining a desirable position. Moffett had wanted to become a reporter. Clemens devised a characteristic scheme. He said:

"I will get you a place on any newspaper you may select if you promisefaithfully to follow out my instructions. "

The applicant agreed, eagerly enough. Clemens said:

"Go to the newspaper of your choice. Say that you are idle and wantwork, that you are pining for work--longing for it, and that you ask nowages, and will support yourself. All that you ask is work. That youwill do anything, sweep, fill the inkstands, mucilage-bottles, runerrands, and be generally useful. You must never ask for wages. Youmust wait until the offer of wages comes to you. You must work just asfaithfully and just as eagerly as if you were being paid for it. Thensee what happens. "

The scheme had worked perfectly. Young Moffett had followed hisinstructions to the letter. By and by he attracted attention. He wasemployed in a variety of ways that earned him the gratitude and theconfidence of the office. In obedience to further instructions, he beganto make short, brief, unadorned notices of small news matters that cameunder his eye and laid them on the city editor's desk. No pay was asked;none was expected. Occasionally one of the items was used. Then, ofcourse, it happened, as it must sooner or later at a busy time, that hewas given a small news assignment. There was no trouble about hisprogress after that. He had won the confidence of the management andshown that he was not afraid to work. 

The plan had been variously tried since, Clemens said, and he could notremember any case in which it had failed. The idea may have grown out ofhis own pilot apprenticeship on the river, when cub pilots not onlyreceived no salary, but paid for the privilege of learning. 

Clemens discussed public matters less often than formerly, but they werenot altogether out of his mind. He thought our republic was in a fairway to become a monarchy--that the signs were already evident. Hereferred to the letter which he had written so long ago in Boston, withits amusing fancy of the Archbishop of Dublin and his Grace of Ponkapog, and declared that, after all, it contained something of prophecy. --[Seechap. Xcvii; also Appendix M. ]--He would not live to see the actualmonarchy, he said, but it was coming. 

"I'm not expecting it in my time nor in my children's time, though it maybe sooner than we think. There are two special reasons for it and onecondition. The first reason is, that it is in the nature of man to wanta definite something to love, honor, reverently look up to and obey; aGod and King, for example. The second reason is, that while littlerepublics have lasted long, protected by their poverty andinsignificance, great ones have not. And the condition is, vast powerand wealth, which breed commercial and political corruptions, and incitepublic favorites to dangerous ambitions. "

He repeated what I had heard him say before, that in one sense we alreadyhad a monarchy; that is to say, a ruling public and political aristocracywhich could create a Presidential succession. He did not say thesethings bitterly now, but reflectively and rather indifferently. 

He was inclined to speak unhopefully of the international plans foruniversal peace, which were being agitated rather persistently. 

"The gospel of peace, " he said, "is always making a deal of noise, alwaysrejoicing in its progress but always neglecting to furnish statistics. There are no peaceful nations now. All Christendom is a soldier-camp. The poor have been taxed in some nations to the starvation point tosupport the giant armaments which Christian governments have built up, each to protect itself from the rest of the Christian brotherhood, andincidentally to snatch any scrap of real estate left exposed by a weakerowner. King Leopold II. Of Belgium, the most intensely Christianmonarch, except Alexander VI. , that has escaped hell thus far, has stolenan entire kingdom in Africa, and in fourteen years of Christian endeavorthere has reduced the population from thirty millions to fifteen bymurder and mutilation and overwork, confiscating the labor of thehelpless natives, and giving them nothing in return but salvation and ahome in heaven, furnished at the last moment by the Christian priest. 

"Within the last generation each Christian power has turned the bulk ofits attention to finding out newer and still newer and more and moreeffective ways of killing Christians, and, incidentally, a pagan now andthen; and the surest way to get rich quickly in Christ's earthly kingdomis to invent a kind of gun that can kill more Christians at one shot thanany other existing kind. All the Christian nations are at it. The moreadvanced they are, the bigger and more destructive engines of war theycreate. "

Once, speaking of battles great and small, and how important even a smallbattle must seem to a soldier who had fought in no other, he said:

"To him it is a mighty achievement, an achievement with a big A, when toa wax-worn veteran it would be a mere incident. For instance, to thesoldier of one battle, San Juan Hill was an Achievement with an A as bigas the Pyramids of Cheops; whereas, if Napoleon had fought it, he wouldhave set it down on his cuff at the time to keep from forgetting it hadhappened. But that is all natural and human enough. We are all likethat. "

The curiosities and absurdities of religious superstitions never failedto furnish him with themes more or less amusing. I remember one Sunday, when he walked down to have luncheon at my house, he sat under the shadeand fell to talking of Herod's slaughter of the innocents, which he saidcould not have happened. 

"Tacitus makes no mention of it, " he said, "and he would hardly haveoverlooked a sweeping order like that, issued by a petty ruler likeHerod. Just consider a little king of a corner of the Roman Empireordering the slaughter of the first-born of a lot of Roman subjects. Why, the Emperor would have reached out that long arm of his and dismissedHerod. That tradition is probably about as authentic as those connectedwith a number of old bridges in Europe which are said to have been builtby Satan. The inhabitants used to go to Satan to build bridges for them, promising him the soul of the first one that crossed the bridge; then, when Satan had the bridge done, they would send over a rooster or ajackass--a cheap jackass; that was for Satan, and of course they couldfool him that way every time. Satan must have been pretty simple, evenaccording to the New Testament, or he wouldn't have led Christ up on ahigh mountain and offered him the world if he would fall down and worshiphim. That was a manifestly absurd proposition, because Christ, as theSon of God, already owned the world; and, besides, what Satan showed himwas only a few rocky acres of Palestine. It is just as if some oneshould try to buy Rockefeller, the owner of all the Standard Oil Company, with a gallon of kerosene. "

He often spoke of the unseen forces of creation, the immutable laws thathold the planet in exact course and bring the years and the seasonsalways exactly on schedule time. "The Great Law" was a phrase often onhis lips. The exquisite foliage, the cloud shapes, the varieties ofcolor everywhere: these were for him outward manifestations of the GreatLaw, whose principle I understood to be unity--exact relations throughoutall nature; and in this I failed to find any suggestion of pessimism, butonly of justice. Once he wrote on a card for preservation:

 From everlasting to everlasting, this is the law: the sum of wrong & misery shall always keep exact step with the sum of human blessedness. 

 No "civilization, " no "advance, " has ever modified these proportions by even the shadow of a shade, nor ever can, while our race endures. 

CCLXIV

CITIZEN AND FARMER

The procession of guests at Stormfield continued pretty steadily. Clemenskept a book in which visitors set down their names and the dates ofarrival and departure, and when they failed to attend to these matters hediligently did it himself after they were gone. 

Members of the Harper Company came up with their wives; "angel-fish" swamin and out of the aquarium; Bermuda friends came to see the new home;Robert Collier, the publisher, and his wife--"Mrs. Sally, " as Clemensliked to call her--paid their visits; Lord Northcliffe, who was visitingAmerica, came with Colonel Harvey, and was so impressed with thearchitecture of Stormfield that he adopted its plans for a country-placehe was about to build in Newfoundland. Helen Keller, with Mr. And Mrs. Macy, came up for a week-end visit. Mrs. Crane came over from Elmira;and, behold! one day came the long-ago sweetheart of his childhood, little Laura Hawkins--Laura Frazer now, widowed and in the seventies, with a granddaughter already a young lady quite grown up. 

That Mark Twain was not wearying of the new conditions we may gather froma letter written to Mrs. Rogers in October:

 I've grown young in these months of dissipation here. And I have left off drinking--it isn't necessary now. Society & theology are sufficient for me. 

To Helen Allen, a Bermuda "Angel-Fish, " he wrote:

 We have good times here in this soundless solitude on the hilltop. The moment I saw the house I was glad I built it, & now I am gladder & gladder all the time. I was not dreaming of living here except in the summer-time--that was before I saw this region & the house, you see--but that is all changed now; I shall stay here winter & summer both & not go back to New York at all. My child, it's as tranquil & contenting as Bermuda. You will be very welcome here, dear. 

He interested himself in the affairs and in the people of Redding. Notlong after his arrival he had gathered in all the inhabitants of thecountry-side, neighbors of every quality, for closer acquaintance, andthrew open to them for inspection every part of the new house. Heappointed Mrs. Lounsbury, whose acquaintance was very wide; a sort ofcommittee on reception, and stood at the entrance with her to welcomeeach visitor in person. 

It was a sort of gala day, and the rooms and the grounds were filled withthe visitors. In the dining-room there were generous refreshments. Again, not long afterward, he issued a special invitation to all ofthose-architects, builders, and workmen who had taken any part, howevergreat or small, in the building of his home. Mr. And Mrs. Littleton werevisiting Stormfield at this time, and both Clemens and Littleton spoke tothese assembled guests from the terrace, and made them feel that theirefforts had been worth while. 

Presently the idea developed to establish something that would be ofbenefit to his neighbors, especially to those who did not have access tomuch reading-matter. He had been for years flooded with books by authorsand publishers, and there was a heavy surplus at his home in the city. When these began to arrive he had a large number of volumes set aside asthe nucleus of a public library. An unused chapel not far away--it couldbe seen from one of his windows--was obtained for the purpose; officerswere elected; a librarian was appointed, and so the Mark Twain Library ofRedding was duly established. Clemens himself was elected its firstpresident, with the resident physician, Dr. Ernest H. Smith, vice-president, and another resident, William E. Grumman, librarian. Onthe afternoon of its opening the president made a brief address. Hesaid:

 I am here to speak a few instructive words to my fellow-farmers. I suppose you are all farmers: I am going to put in a crop next year, when I have been here long enough and know how. I couldn't make a turnip stay on a tree now after I had grown it. I like to talk. It would take more than the Redding air to make me keep still, and I like to instruct people. It's noble to be good, and it's nobler to teach others to be good, and less trouble. I am glad to help this library. We get our morals from books. I didn't get mine from books, but I know that morals do come from books --theoretically at least. Mr. Beard or Mr. Adams will give some land, and by and by we are going to have a building of our own. 

This statement was news to both Mr. Beard and Mr. Adams and aninspiration of the moment; but Mr. Theodore Adams, who owned a mostdesirable site, did in fact promptly resolve to donate it for librarypurposes. Clemens continued:

 I am going to help build that library with contributions from my visitors. Every male guest who comes to my house will have to contribute a dollar or go away without his baggage. 

 --[A characteristic notice to guests requiring them to contribute a dollar to the Library Building Fund was later placed on the billiard-room mantel at Stormfield with good results. ]--If those burglars that broke into my house recently had done that they would have been happier now, or if they'd have broken into this library they would have read a few books and led a better life. Now they are in jail, and if they keep on they will go to Congress. When a person starts downhill you can never tell where he's going to stop. I am sorry for those burglars. They got nothing that they wanted and scared away most of my servants. Now we are putting in a burglar-alarm instead of a dog. Some advised the dog, but it costs even more to entertain a dog than a burglar. I am having the ground electrified, so that for a mile around any one who puts his foot across the line sets off an alarm that will be heard in Europe. Now I will introduce the real president to you, a man whom you know already--Dr. Smith. 

So a new and important benefit was conferred upon the community, andthere was a feeling that Redding, besides having a literary colony, wasto be literary in fact. 

It might have been mentioned earlier that Redding already had literaryassociations when Mark Twain arrived. As far back as Revolutionary daysJoel Barlow, a poet of distinction, and once Minister to France, had beena resident of Redding, and there were still Barlow descendants in thetownship. 

William Edgar Grumman, the librarian, had written the story of Redding'sshare in the Revolutionary War--no small share, for Gen. Israel Putnam'sarmy had been quartered there during at least one long, trying winter. Charles Burr Todd, of one of the oldest Redding families, himself--stilla resident, was also the author of a Redding history. 

Of literary folk not native to Redding, Dora Reed Goodale and her sisterElaine, the wife of Dr. Charles A. Eastman, had, long been residents ofRedding Center; Jeanette L. Gilder and Ida M. Tarbell had summer homes onRedding Ridge; Dan Beard, as already mentioned, owned a place near thebanks of the Saugatuck, while Kate V. St. Maur, also two of NathanielHawthorne's granddaughters had recently located adjoining the Stormfieldlands. By which it will be seen that Redding was in no way unsuitable asa home for Mark Twain. 

CCLXV

A MANTEL AND A BABY ELEPHANT

Mark Twain was the receiver of two notable presents that year. The firstof these, a mantel from Hawaii, presented to him by the HawaiianPromotion Committee, was set in place in the billiard-room on the morningof his seventy-third birthday. This committee had written, proposing tobuild for his new home either a mantel or a chair, as he might prefer, the same to be carved from the native woods. Clemens decided on abilliard-room mantel, and John Howells forwarded the proper measurements. So, in due time, the mantel arrived, a beautiful piece of work and infine condition, with the Hawaiian word, "Aloha, " one of the sweetestforms of greeting in any tongue, carved as its central ornament. 

To the donors of the gift Clemens wrote:

 The beautiful mantel was put in its place an hour ago, & its friendly "Aloha" was the first uttered greeting received on my 73d birthday. It is rich in color, rich in quality, & rich in decoration; therefore it exactly harmonized with the taste for such things which was born in me & which I have seldom been able to indulge to my content. It will be a great pleasure to me, daily renewed, to have under my eye this lovely reminder of the loveliest fleet of islands that lies anchored in any ocean, & I beg to thank the committee for providing me that pleasure. 

To F. N. Otremba, who had carved the mantel, he sent this word:

 I am grateful to you for the valued compliment to me in the labor of heart and hand and brain which you have put upon it. It is worthy of the choicest place in the house and it has it. 

It was the second beautiful mantel in Stormfield--the Hartford librarymantel, removed when that house was sold, having been installed in theStormfield living-room. 

Altogether the seventy-third birthday was a pleasant one. Clemens, inthe morning, drove down to see the library lot which Mr. Theodore Adamshad presented, and the rest of the day there were fine, close billiardgames, during which he was in the gentlest and happiest moods. Herecalled the games of two years before, and as we stopped playing I said:

"I hope a year from now we shall be here, still playing the great game. "

And he answered, as then:

"Yes, it is a great game--the best game on earth. " And he held out hishand and thanked me for coming, as he never failed to do when we parted, though it always hurt me a little, for the debt was so largely mine. 

Mark Twain's second present came at Christmas-time. About ten daysearlier, a letter came from Robert J. Collier, saying that he had boughta baby elephant which he intended to present to Mark Twain as a Christmasgift. He added that it would be sent as soon as he could get a car forit, and the loan of a keeper from Barnum & Bailey's headquarters atBridgeport. 

The news created a disturbance in Stormfield. One could not refuse, discourteously and abruptly, a costly present like that; but it seemed adisaster to accept it. An elephant would require a roomy and warm place, also a variety of attention which Stormfield was not prepared to supply. The telephone was set going and certain timid excuses were offered by thesecretary. There was no good place to put an elephant in Stormfield, butMr. Collier said, quite confidently:

"Oh, put him in the garage. "

"But there's no heat in the garage. "

"Well, put him in the loggia, then. That's closed in, isn't it, for thewinter? Plenty of sunlight--just the place for a young elephant. "

"But we play cards in the loggia. We use it for a sort of sun-parlor. "

"But that wouldn't matter. He's a kindly, playful little thing. He'llbe just like a kitten. I'll send the man up to look over the place andtell you just how to take care of him, and I'll send up several bales ofhay in advance. It isn't a large elephant, you know: just a little one--a regular plaything. "

There was nothing further to be done; only to wait and dread until theChristmas present's arrival. 

A few days before Christmas ten bales of hay arrived and several bushelsof carrots. This store of provender aroused no enthusiasm at Stormfield. It would seem there was no escape now. 

On Christmas morning Mr. Lounsbury telephoned up that there was a man atthe station who said he was an elephant-trainer from Barnum & Bailey's, sent by Mr. Collier to look at the elephant's quarters and get himsettled when he should arrive. Orders were given to bring the man over. The day of doom was at hand. 

But Lounsbury's detective instinct came once more into play. He had seena good many elephant-trainers at Bridgeport, and he thought this one hada doubtful look. 

"Where is the elephant?" he asked, as they drove along. 

"He will arrive at noon. "

"Where are you going to put him?"

"In the loggia. "

"How big is he?"

"About the size of a cow. "

"How long have you been with Barnum and Bailey?"

"Six years. "

"Then you must know some friends of mine" (naming two that had noexistence until that moment). 

"Oh yes, indeed. I know them well. "

Lounsbury didn't say any more just then, but he had a feeling thatperhaps the dread at Stormfield had grown unnecessarily large. Somethingtold him that this man seemed rather more like a butler, or a valet, thanan elephant-trainer. They drove to Stormfield, and the trainer lookedover the place. It would do perfectly, he said. He gave a fewinstructions as to the care of this new household feature, and was drivenback to the station to bring it. 

Lounsbury came back by and by, bringing the elephant but not the trainer. It didn't need a trainer. It was a beautiful specimen, with soft, smoothcoat and handsome trappings, perfectly quiet, well-behaved and small--suited to the loggia, as Collier had said--for it was only two feetlong and beautifully made of cloth and cotton--one of the forest toyelephants ever seen anywhere. 

It was a good joke, such as Mark Twain loved--a carefully prepared, harmless bit of foolery. He wrote Robert Collier, threatening him withall sorts of revenge, declaring that the elephant was devastatingStormfield. 

"To send an elephant in a trance, under pretense that it was dead orstuffed!" he said. "The animal came to life, as you knew it would, andbegan to observe Christmas, and we now have no furniture left and noservants and no visitors, no friends, no photographs, no burglars--nothing but the elephant. Be kind, be merciful, be generous; take himaway and send us what is left of the earthquake. "

Collier wrote that he thought it unkind of him to look a gift-elephant inthe trunk. And with such chaffing and gaiety the year came to an end. 

CCLXXVI

SHAKESPEARE-BACON TALK

When the bad weather came there was not much company at Stormfield, and Iwent up regularly each afternoon, for it was lonely on that bleak hill, and after his forenoon of reading or writing he craved diversion. My ownhome was a little more than a half mile away, and I enjoyed the walk, whatever the weather. I usually managed to arrive about three o'clock. He would watch from his high windows until he saw me raise the hilltop, and he would be at the door when I arrived, so that there might be nodelay in getting at the games. Or, if it happened that he wished to showme something in his room, I would hear his rich voice sounding down thestair. Once, when I arrived, I heard him calling, and going up I foundhim highly pleased with the arrangement of two pictures on a chair, placed so that the glasses of them reflected the sunlight on the ceiling. He said:

"They seem to catch the reflection of the sky and the winter colors. Sometimes the hues are wonderfully iridescent. "

He pointed to a bunch of wild red berries on the mantel with the sun onthem. 

"How beautifully they light up!" he said; "some of them in the sunlight, some still in the shadow. "

He walked to the window and stood looking out on the somber fields. 

"The lights and colors are always changing there, " he said. "I nevertire of it. "

To see him then so full of the interest and delight of the moment, onemight easily believe he had never known tragedy and shipwreck. More thanany one I ever knew, he lived in the present. Most of us are eitherdreaming of the past or anticipating the future--forever beating thedirge of yesterday or the tattoo of to-morrow. Mark Twain's step wastimed to the march of the moment. There were days when he recalled thepast and grieved over it, and when he speculated concerning the future;but his greater interest was always of the now, and of the particularlocality where he found it. The thing which caught his fancy, howeverslight or however important, possessed him fully for the time, even ifnever afterward. 

He was especially interested that winter in the Shakespeare-Baconproblem. He had long been unable to believe that the actor-manager fromStratford had written those great plays, and now a book just published, 'The Shakespeare Problem Restated', by George Greenwood, and another onein press, 'Some Characteristic Signatures of Francis Bacon', by WilliamStone Booth, had added the last touch of conviction that Francis Bacon, and Bacon only, had written the Shakespeare dramas. I was ardentlyopposed to this idea. The romance of the boy, Will Shakespeare, who hadcome up to London and began, by holding horses outside of the theater, and ended by winning the proudest place in the world of letters, wassomething I did not wish to let perish. I produced all the stocktestimony--Ben Jonson's sonnet, the internal evidence of the playsthemselves, the actors who had published them--but he refused to acceptany of it. He declared that there was not a single proof to show thatShakespeare had written one of them. 

"Is there any evidence that he didn't?" I asked. 

"There's evidence that he couldn't, " he said. "It required a man withthe fullest legal equipment to have written them. When you have readGreenwood's book you will see how untenable is any argument forShakespeare's authorship. "

I was willing to concede something, and offered a compromise. 

"Perhaps, " I said, "Shakespeare was the Belasoo of that day--themanagerial genius, unable to write plays himself, but with the supremegift of making effective drama from the plays of others. In that case itis not unlikely that the plays would be known as Shakespeare's. Even inthis day John Luther Long's 'Madam Butterfly' is sometimes calledBelasco's play; though it is doubtful if Belasco ever wrote a line ofit. "

He considered this view, but not very favorably. The Booth book was atthis time a secret, and he had not told me anything concerning it; but hehad it in his mind when he said, with an air of the greatest conviction:

"I know that Shakespeare did not write those plays, and I have reason tobelieve he did not touch the text in any way. "

"How can you be so positive?" I asked. 

He replied:

"I have private knowledge from a source that cannot be questioned. "

I now suspected that he was joking, and asked if he had been consulting aspiritual medium; but he was clearly in earnest. 

"It is the great discovery of the age, " he said, quite seriously. "Theworld will soon ring with it. I wish I could tell you about it, but Ihave passed my word. You will not have long to wait. "

I was going to sail for the Mediterranean in February, and I asked if itwould be likely that I would know this great secret before I sailed. Hethought not; but he said that more than likely the startling news wouldbe given to the world while I was on the water, and it might come to meon the ship by wireless. I confess I was amazed and intensely curious bythis time. I conjectured the discovery of some document--some Bacon orShakespeare private paper which dispelled all the mystery of theauthorship. I hinted that he might write me a letter which I could openon the ship; but he was firm in his refusal. He had passed his word, herepeated, and the news might not be given out as soon as that; but heassured me more than once that wherever I might be, in whatever remotelocality, it would come by cable, and the world would quake with it. Iwas tempted to give up my trip, to be with him at Stormfield at the timeof the upheaval. 

Naturally the Shakespeare theme was uppermost during the remaining daysthat we were together. He had engaged another stenographer, and was nowdictating, forenoons, his own views on the subject--views coordinatedwith those of Mr. Greenwood, whom he liberally quoted, but embellishedand decorated in his own gay manner. These were chapters for hisautobiography, he said, and I think he had then no intention of making abook of them. I could not quite see why he should take all thisargumentary trouble if he had, as he said, positive evidence that Bacon, and not Shakespeare, had written the plays. I thought the whole mattervery curious. 

The Shakespeare interest had diverging by-paths. One evening, when wewere alone at dinner, he said:

"There is only one other illustrious man in history about whom there isso little known, " and he added, "Jesus Christ. "

He reviewed the statements of the Gospels concerning Christ, though hedeclared them to be mainly traditional and of no value. I agreed thatthey contained confusing statements, and inflicted more or less withjustice and reason; but I said I thought there was truth in them, too. 

"Why do you think so?" he asked. 

"Because they contain matters that are self-evident--things eternally andessentially just. "

"Then you make your own Bible?"

"Yes, from those materials combined with human reason. "

"Then it does not matter where the truth, as you call it, comes from?"

I admitted that the source did not matter; that truth from Shakespeare, Epictetus, or Aristotle was quite as valuable as from the Scriptures. Wewere on common ground now. He mentioned Marcus Aurelius, the Stoics, andtheir blameless lives. I, still pursuing the thought of Jesus, asked:

"Do you not think it strange that in that day when Christ came, admittingthat there was a Christ, such a character could have come at all--in thetime of the Pharisees and the Sadducees, when all was ceremony andunbelief?"

"I remember, " he said, "the Sadducees didn't believe in hell. He broughtthem one. "

"Nor the resurrection. He brought them that, also. "

He did not admit that there had been a Christ with the character andmission related by the Gospels. 

"It is all a myth, " he said. "There have been Saviours in every age ofthe world. It is all just a fairy tale, like the idea of Santa Claus. "

"But, " I argued, "even the spirit of Christmas is real when it isgenuine. Suppose that we admit there was no physical Saviour--that it isonly an idea--a spiritual embodiment which humanity has made for itselfand is willing to improve upon as its own spirituality improves, wouldn'tthat make it worthy?"

"But then the fairy story of the atonement dissolves, and with itcrumbles the very foundations of any established church. You can createyour own Testament, your own Scripture, and your own Christ, but you'vegot to give up your atonement. "

"As related to the crucifixion, yes, and good riddance to it; but thedeath of the old order and the growth of spirituality comes to a sort ofatonement, doesn't it?"

He said:

"A conclusion like that has about as much to do with the Gospels andChristianity as Shakespeare had to do with Bacon's plays. You arepreaching a doctrine that would have sent a man to the stake a fewcenturies ago. I have preached that in my own Gospel. "

I remembered then, and realized that, by my own clumsy ladder, I hadmerely mounted from dogma, and superstition to his platform of trainingthe ideals to a higher contentment of soul. 

CCLXXVII

"IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?"

I set out on my long journey with much reluctance. However, a series ofguests with various diversions had been planned, and it seemed a goodtime to go. Clemens gave me letters of introduction, and bade meGodspeed. It would be near the end of April before I should see himagain. 

Now and then on the ship, and in the course of my travels, I rememberedthe great news I was to hear concerning Shakespeare. In Cairo, atShepheard's, I looked eagerly through English newspapers, expecting anymoment to come upon great head-lines; but I was always disappointed. Evenon the return voyage there was no one I could find who had heard anyparticular Shakespeare news. 

Arriving in New York, I found that Clemens himself had published hisShakespeare dictations in a little volume of his own, entitled, 'IsShakespeare Dead?' The title certainly suggested spiritistic matters, and I got a volume at Harpers', and read it going up on the train, hopingto find somewhere in it a solution of the great mystery. But it was onlymatter I had already known; the secret was still unrevealed. 

At Redding I lost not much time in getting up to Stormfield. There hadbeen changes in my absence. Clara Clemens had returned from her travels, and Jean, whose health seemed improved, was coming home to be herfather's secretary. He was greatly pleased with these things, anddeclared he was going to have a home once more with his children abouthim. 

He was quite alone that day, and we walked up and down the greatliving-room for an hour, perhaps, while he discussed his new plans. Forone thing, he had incorporated his pen-name, Mark Twain, in order thatthe protection of his copyrights and the conduct of his literary businessin general should not require his personal attention. He seemed to finda relief in this, as he always did in dismissing any kind ofresponsibility. When we went in for billiards I spoke of his book, whichI had read on the way up, and of the great Shakespearian secret which wasto astonish the world. Then he told me that the matter had been delayed, but that he was no longer required to suppress it; that the revelationwas in the form of a book--a book which revealed conclusively to any onewho would take the trouble to follow the directions that the acrosticname of Francis Bacon in a great variety of forms ran through many--probably through all of the so-called Shakespeare plays. He said itwas far and away beyond anything of the kind ever published; thatIgnatius Donnelly and others had merely glimpsed the truth, but that theauthor of this book, William Stone Booth, had demonstrated, beyond anydoubt or question, that the Bacon signatures were there. The book wouldbe issued in a few days, he said. He had seen a set of proofs of it, andwhile it had not been published in the best way to clearly demonstrateits great revelation, it must settle the matter with every reasoningmind. He confessed that his faculties had been more or less defeated in, attempting to follow the ciphers, and he complained bitterly that theevidence had not been set forth so that he who merely skims a book mightgrasp it. 

He had failed on the acrostics at first; but more recently he hadunderstood the rule, and had been able to work out several Baconsignatures. He complimented me by saying that he felt sure that when thebook came I would have no trouble with it. 

Without going further with this matter, I may say here that the bookarrived presently, and between us we did work out a considerable numberof the claimed acrostics by following the rules laid down. It wascertainly an interesting if not wholly convincing occupation, and itwould be a difficult task for any one to prove that the ciphers are notthere. Just why this pretentious volume created so little agitation itwould be hard to say. Certainly it did not cause any great upheaval inthe literary world, and the name of William Shakespeare still continuesto be printed on the title-page of those marvelous dramas so longassociated with his name. 

Mark Twain's own book on the subject--'Is Shakespeare Dead?'--found awide acceptance, and probably convinced as many readers. It contained nonew arguments; but it gave a convincing touch to the old ones, and it wascertainly readable. --[Mark Twain had the fullest conviction as to theBacon authorship of the Shakespeare plays. One evening, with Mr. EdwardLoomis, we attended a fine performance of "Romeo and Juliet" given bySothern and Marlowe. At the close of one splendid scene he said, quiteearnestly, "That is about the best play that Lord Bacon ever wrote. "]

Among the visitors who had come to Stormfield was Howells. Clemens hadcalled a meeting of the Human Race Club, but only Howells was able toattend. We will let him tell of his visit:

 We got on very well without the absentees, after finding them in the wrong, as usual, and the visit was like those I used to have with him so many years before in Hartford, but there was not the old ferment of subjects. Many things had been discussed and put away for good, but we had our old fondness for nature and for each other, who were so differently parts of it. He showed his absolute content with his house, and that was the greater pleasure for me because it was my son who designed it. The architect had been so fortunate as to be able to plan it where a natural avenue of savins, the close- knit, slender, cypress-like cedars of New England, led away from the rear of the villa to the little level of a pergola, meant some day to be wreathed and roofed with vines. But in the early spring days all the landscape was in the beautiful nakedness of the Northern winter. It opened in the surpassing loveliness of wooded and meadowed uplands, under skies that were the first days blue, and the last gray over a rainy and then a snowy floor. We walked up and down, up and down, between the villa terrace and the pergola, and talked with the melancholy amusement, the sad tolerance of age for the sort of men and things that used to excite us or enrage us; now we were far past turbulence or anger. Once we took a walk together across the yellow pastures to a chasmal creek on his grounds, where the ice still knit the clayey banks together like crystal mosses; and the stream far down clashed through and over the stones and the shards of ice. Clemens pointed out the scenery he had bought to give himself elbowroom, and showed me the lot he was going to have me build on. The next day we came again with the geologist he had asked up to Stormfield to analyze its rocks. Truly he loved the place . . . . 

 My visit at Stormfield came to an end with tender relucting on his part and on mine. Every morning before I dressed I heard him sounding my name through the house for the fun of it and I know for the fondness, and if I looked out of my door there he was in his long nightgown swaying up and down the corridor, and wagging his great white head like a boy that leaves his bed and comes out in the hope of frolic with some one. The last morning a soft sugar-snow had fallen and was falling, and I drove through it down to the station in the carriage which had been given him by his wife's father when they were first married, and had been kept all those intervening years in honorable retirement for this final use. --[This carriage--a finely built coup--had been presented to Mrs. Crane when the Hartford house was closed. When Stormfield was built she returned it to its original owner. ]--Its springs had not grown yielding with time, it had rather the stiffness and severity of age; but for him it must have swung low like the sweet chariot of the negro "spiritual" which I heard him sing with such fervor when those wonderful hymns of the slaves began to make their way northward. 

Howells's visit resulted in a new inspiration. Clemens started to writehim one night when he could not sleep, and had been reading the volume ofletters of James Russell Lowell. Then, next morning, he was seized withthe notion of writing a series of letters to such friends as Howells, Twichell, and Rogers--letters not to be mailed, but to be laid away forsome future public. He wrote two of these immediately--to Howells and toTwichell. The Howells letter (or letters, for it was really double) isboth pathetic and amusing. The first part ran: 3 in the morning, April 17, 1909. 

 My pen has gone dry and the ink is out of reach. Howells, did you write me day-before-day-before yesterday or did I dream it? In my mind's eye I most vividly see your hand-write on a square blue envelope in the mail-pile. I have hunted the house over, but there is no such letter. Was it an illusion?

 I am reading Lowell's letters & smoking. I woke an hour ago & am reading to keep from wasting the time. On page 305, Vol. I, I have just margined a note:

 "Young friend! I like that! You ought to see him now. "

 It seemed startlingly strange to hear a person call you young. It was a brick out of a blue sky, & knocked me groggy for a moment. Ah me, the pathos of it is that we were young then. And he--why, so was he, but he didn't know it. He didn't even know it 9 years later, when we saw him approaching and you warned me, saying:

 "Don't say anything about age--he has just turned 50 & thinks he is old, & broods over it. "

 Well, Clara did sing! And you wrote her a dear letter. 

 Time to go to sleep. 

 Yours ever, MARK

The second letter, begun at 10 A. M. , outlines the plan by which he is towrite on the subject uppermost in his mind without restraint, knowingthat the letter is not to be mailed. 

 . . . The scheme furnishes a definite target for each letter, & you can choose the target that's going to be the most sympathetic for what you are hungering & thirsting to say at that particular moment. And you can talk with a quite unallowable frankness & freedom because you are not going to send the letter. When you are on fire with theology you'll not write it to Rogers, who wouldn't be an inspiration; you'll write it to Twichell, because it will make him writhe and squirm & break the furniture. When you are on fire with a good thing that's indecent you won't waste it on Twichell; you'll save it for Howells, who will love it. As he will never see it you can make it really indecenter than he could stand; & so no harm is done, yet a vast advantage is gained. 

The letter was not finished, and the scheme perished there. The Twichellletter concerned missionaries, and added nothing to what he had alreadysaid on the subject. 

He wrote no letter to Mr. Rogers--perhaps never wrote to him again. 

CCLXXVIII

THE DEATH OF HENRY ROGERS

Clemens, a little before my return, had been on a trip to Norfolk, Virginia, to attend the opening ceremonies of the Virginia Railway. Hehad made a speech on that occasion, in which he had paid a public tributeto Henry Rogers, and told something of his personal obligation to thefinancier. 

He began by telling what Mr. Rogers had done for Helen Keller, whom hecalled "the most marvelous person of her sex that has existed on thisearth since Joan of Arc. " Then he said:

 That is not all Mr. Rogers has done, but you never see that side of his character because it is never protruding; but he lends a helping hand daily out of that generous heart of his. You never hear of it. He is supposed to be a moon which has one side dark and the other bright. But the other side, though you don't see it, is not dark; it is bright, and its rays penetrate, and others do see it who are not God. I would take this opportunity to tell something that I have never been allowed to tell by Mr. Rogers, either by my mouth or in print, and if I don't look at him I can tell it now. 

 In 1894, when the publishing company of Charles L. Webster, of which I was financial agent, failed, it left me heavily in debt. If you will remember what commerce was at that time you will recall that you could not sell anything, and could not buy anything, and I was on my back; my books were not worth anything at all, and I could not give away my copyrights. Mr. Rogers had long-enough vision ahead to say, "Your books have supported you before, and after the panic is over they will support you again, " and that was a correct proposition. He saved my copyrights, and saved me from financial ruin. He it was who arranged with my creditors to allow me to roam the face of the earth and persecute the nations thereof with lectures, promising at the end of four years I would pay dollar for dollar. That arrangement was made, otherwise I would now be living out-of-doors under an umbrella, and a borrowed one at that. 

 You see his white mustache and his hair trying to get white (he is always trying to look like me--I don't blame him for that). These are only emblematic of his character, and that is all. I say, without exception, hair and all, he is the whitest man I have ever known. 

This had been early in April. Something more than a month later Clemenswas making a business trip to New York to see Mr. Rogers. I wastelephoned early to go up and look over some matters with him before hestarted. I do not remember why I was not to go along that day, for Iusually made such trips with him. I think it was planned that MissClemens, who was in the city, was to meet him at the Grand CentralStation. At all events, she did meet him there, with the news thatduring the night Mr. Rogers had suddenly died. This was May 20, 1909. The news had already come to the house, and I had lost no time inpreparations to follow by the next train. I joined him at the GrosvenorHotel, on Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street. He was upset and deeplytroubled by the loss of his stanch adviser and friend. He had a helplesslook, and he said his friends were dying away from him and leaving himadrift. 

"And how I hate to do anything, " he added, "that requires the leastmodicum of intelligence!"

We remained at the Grosvenor for Mr. Rogers's funeral. Clemens served asone of the pall-bearers, but he did not feel equal to the trip toFairhaven. He wanted to be very quiet, he said. He could not undertaketo travel that distance among those whom he knew so well, and with whomhe must of necessity join in conversation; so we remained in the hotelapartment, reading and saying very little until bedtime. Once he askedme to write a letter to Jean: "Say, 'Your father says every little while, "How glad I am that Jean is at home again!"' for that is true and I thinkof it all the time. "

But by and by, after a long period of silence, he said:

"Mr. Rogers is under the ground now. "

And so passed out of earthly affairs the man who had contributed solargely to the comfort of Mark Twain's old age. He was a man of finesensibilities and generous impulses; withal a keen sense of humor. 

One Christmas, when he presented Mark Twain with a watch and amatch-case, he wrote:

 MY DEAR CLEMENS, --For many years your friends have been complaining of your use of tobacco, both as to quantity and quality. Complaints are now coming in of your use of time. Most of your friends think that you are using your supply somewhat lavishly, but the chief complaint is in regard to the quality. 

 I have been appealed to in the mean time, and have concluded that it is impossible to get the right kind of time from a blacking-box. 

 Therefore, I take the liberty of sending you herewith a machine that will furnish only the best. Please use it with the kind wishes of Yours truly, H. H. ROGERS. 

 P. S. --Complaint has also been made in regard to the furrows you make in your trousers in scratching matches. You will find a furrow on the bottom of the article inclosed. Please use it. Compliments of the season to the family. 

He was a man too busy to write many letters, but when he did write (toClemens at least) they were always playful and unhurried. One readingthem would not find it easy to believe that the writer was a man on whoseshoulders lay the burdens of stupendous finance-burdens so heavy that atlast he was crushed beneath their weight. 

CCLXXIX

AN EXTENSION OF COPYRIGHT

One of the pleasant things that came to Mark Twain that year was thepassage of a copyright bill, which added to the royalty period anextension of fourteen years. Champ Clark had been largely instrumentalin the success of this measure, and had been fighting for it steadilysince Mark Twain's visit to Washington in 1906. Following that visit, Clark wrote:

 . . . It [the original bill] would never pass because the bill had literature and music all mixed together. Being a Missourian of course it would give me great pleasure to be of service to you. What I want to say is this: you have prepared a simple bill relating only to the copyright of books; send it to me and I will try to have it passed. 

Clemens replied that he might have something more to say on the copyrightquestion by and by--that he had in hand a dialogue--[Similar to the "OpenLetter to the Register of Copyrights, " North American Review, January, 1905. ]--which would instruct Congress, but this he did not complete. Meantime a simple bill was proposed and early in 1909 it became a law. InJune Clark wrote:

 DR. SAMUEL L. CLEMENS, Stormfield, Redding, Conn. 

 MY DEAR DOCTOR, --I am gradually becoming myself again, after a period of exhaustion that almost approximated prostration. After a long lecture tour last summer I went immediately into a hard campaign; as soon as the election was over, and I had recovered my disposition, I came here and went into those tariff hearings, which began shortly after breakfast each day, and sometimes lasted until midnight. Listening patiently and meekly, withal, to the lying of tariff barons for many days and nights was followed by the work of the long session; that was followed by a hot campaign to take Uncle Joe's rules away from him; on the heels of that "Campaign that Failed" came the tariff fight in the House. I am now getting time to breathe regularly and I am writing to ask you if the copyright law is acceptable to you. If it is not acceptable to you I want to ask you to write and tell me how it should be changed and I will give my best endeavors to the work. I believe that your ideas and wishes in the matter constitute the best guide we have as to what should be done in the case. Your friend, CHAMP CLARK. 

To this Clemens replied:

 STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN, June 5, 1909. 

 DEAR CHAMP CLARK, --Is the new copyright law acceptable to me? Emphatically yes! Clark, it is the only sane & clearly defined & just & righteous copyright law that has ever existed in the United States. Whosoever will compare it with its predecessors will have no trouble in arriving at that decision. 

 The bill which was before the committee two years ago when I was down there was the most stupefying jumble of conflicting & apparently irreconcilable interests that was ever seen; and we all said "the case is hopeless, absolutely hopeless--out of this chaos nothing can be built. " But we were in error; out of that chaotic mass this excellent bill has been constructed, the warring interests have been reconciled, and the result is as comely and substantial a legislative edifice as lifts its domes and towers and protective lightning-rods out of the statute book I think. When I think of that other bill, which even the Deity couldn't understand, and of this one, which even I can understand, I take off my hat to the man or men who devised this one. Was it R. U. Johnson? Was it the Authors' League? Was it both together? I don't know, but I take off my hat, anyway. Johnson has written a valuable article about the new law--I inclose it. 

 At last--at last and for the first time in copyright history--we are ahead of England! Ahead of her in two ways: by length of time and by fairness to all interests concerned. Does this sound like shouting? Then I must modify it: all we possessed of copyright justice before the 4th of last March we owed to England's initiative. Truly yours, S. L. CLEMENS. 

Clemens had prepared what was the final word an the subject of copyrightjust before this bill was passed--a petition for a law which he believedwould regulate the whole matter. It was a generous, even if a somewhatUtopian, plan, eminently characteristic of its author. The newfourteen-year extension, with the prospect of more, made this or anyother compromise seem inadvisable. --[The reader may consider this lastcopyright document by Mark Twain under Appendix N, at the end of thisvolume. ]

CCLXXX

A WARNING

Clemens had promised to go to Baltimore for the graduation of "Francesca"of his London visit in 1907--and to make a short address to her class. 

It was the eighth of June when we set out on this journey, --[The readermay remember that it was the 8th of June, 1867, that Mark Twain sailedfor the Holy Land. It was the 8th of June, 1907, that he sailed forEngland to take his Oxford degree. This 8th of June, 1909, was at leastslightly connected with both events, for he was keeping an engagementmade with Francesca in London, and my notes show that he discussed, onthe way to the station, some incidents of his Holy Land trip and hisattitude at that time toward Christian traditions. As he rarelymentioned the Quaker City trip, the coincidence seems rather curious. Itis most unlikely that Clemens himself in any way associated the twodates. ]--but the day was rather bleak and there was a chilly rain. Clemens had a number of errands to do in New York, and we drove from oneplace to another, attending to them. Finally, in the afternoon, the rainceased, and while I was arranging some matters for him he concluded totake a ride on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage. It was fine and pleasantwhen he started, but the weather thickened again and when he returned hecomplained that he had felt a little chilly. He seemed in finecondition, however, next morning and was in good spirits all the way toBaltimore. Chauncey Depew was on the train and they met in thedining-car--the last time, I think, they ever saw each other. He wastired when we reached the Belvedere Hotel in Baltimore and did not wishto see the newspaper men. It happened that the reporters had a specialpurpose in coming just at this time, for it had suddenly developed thatin his Shakespeare book, through an oversight, due to haste inpublication, full credit had not been given to Mr. Greenwood for the longextracts quoted from his work. The sensational head-lines in a morningpaper, "Is Mark Twain a Plagiarist?" had naturally prompted the newspapermen to see what he would have to say on the subject. It was a simplematter, easily explained, and Clemens himself was less disturbed about itthan anybody. He felt no sense of guilt, he said; and the fact that hehad been stealing and caught at it would give Mr. Greenwood's book farmore advertising than if he had given him the full credit which he hadintended. He found a good deal of amusement in the situation, his onlyworry being that Clara and Jean would see the paper and be troubled. 

He had taken off his clothes and was lying down, reading. After a littlehe got up and began walking up and down the room. Presently he stoppedand, facing me, placed his hand upon his breast. He said:

"I think I must have caught a little cold yesterday on that Fifth Avenuestage. I have a curious pain in my breast. "

I suggested that he lie down again and I would fill his hot-water bag. The pain passed away presently, and he seemed to be dozing. I steppedinto the next room and busied myself with some writing. By and by Iheard him stirring again and went in where he was. He was walking up anddown and began talking of some recent ethnological discoveries--something relating to prehistoric man. 

"What a fine boy that prehistoric man must have been, " he said--"thevery first one! Think of the gaudy style of him, how he must have lordedit over those other creatures, walking on his hind legs, waving his arms, practising and getting ready for the pulpit. "

The fancy amused him, but presently he paused in his walk and again puthis hand on his breast, saying:

"That pain has come back. It's a curious, sickening, deadly kind ofpain. I never had anything just like it. "

It seemed to me that his face had become rather gray. I said:

"Where is it, exactly, Mr. Clemens?"

He laid his hand in the center of his breast and said:

"It is here, and it is very peculiar indeed. "

Remotely in my mind occurred the thought that he had located his heart, and the "peculiar deadly pain" he had mentioned seemed ominous. Isuggested, however, that it was probably some rheumatic touch, and thisopinion seemed warranted when, a few moments later, the hot water hadagain relieved it. This time the pain had apparently gone to stay, forit did not return while we were in Baltimore. It was the first positivemanifestation of the angina which eventually would take him from us. 

The weather was pleasant in Baltimore, and his visit to St. Timothy'sSchool and his address there were the kind of diversions that meant mostto him. The flock of girls, all in their pretty commencement dresses, assembled and rejoicing at his playfully given advice: not to smoke--toexcess; not to drink--to excess; not to marry--to excess; he standingthere in a garb as white as their own--it made a rare picture--a sweetmemory--and it was the last time he ever gave advice from the platform toany one. 

Edward S. Martin also spoke to the school, and then there was a greatfeasting in the big assembly-hall. 

It was on the lawn that a reporter approached him with the news of thedeath of Edward Everett Hale--another of the old group. Clemens saidthoughtfully, after a moment:

"I had the greatest respect and esteem for Edward Everett Hale, thegreatest admiration for his work. I am as grieved to hear of his deathas I can ever be to hear of the death of any friend, though my grief isalways tempered with the satisfaction of knowing that for the one thatgoes, the hard, bitter struggle of life is ended. "

We were leaving the Belvedere next morning, and when the subject ofbreakfast came up for discussion he said:

"That was the most delicious Baltimore fried chicken we had yesterdaymorning. I think we'll just repeat that order. It reminds me of JohnQuarles's farm. "

We had been having our meals served in the rooms, but we had breakfastthat morning down in the diningroom, and "Francesca" and her mother werethere. 

As he stood on the railway platform waiting for the train, he told me howonce, fifty-five years before, as a boy of eighteen, he had changed carsthere for Washington and had barely caught his train--the crowd yellingat him as he ran. 

We remained overnight in New York, and that evening, at the Grosvenor, heread aloud a poem of his own which I had not seen before. He had broughtit along with some intention of reading it at St. Timothy's, he said, but had not found the occasion suitable. 

"I wrote it a long time ago in Paris. I'd been reading aloud to Mrs. Clemens and Susy--in '93, I think--about Lord Clive and Warren Hastings, from Macaulay--how great they were and how far they fell. Then I took animaginary case--that of some old demented man mumbling of his formerstate. I described him, and repeated some of his mumblings. Susy andMrs. Clemens said, 'Write it'--so I did, by and by, and this is it. Icall it 'The Derelict. '"

He read in his effective manner that fine poem, the opening stanza ofwhich follows:

 You sneer, you ships that pass me by, Your snow-pure canvas towering proud! You traders base!--why, once such fry Paid reverence, when like a cloud Storm-swept I drove along, My Admiral at post, his pennon blue Faint in the wilderness of sky, my long Yards bristling with my gallant crew, My ports flung wide, my guns displayed, My tall spars hid in bellying sail! --You struck your topsails then, and made Obeisance--now your manners fail. 

He had employed rhyme with more facility than was usual for him, and thefigure and phrasing were full of vigor. 

"It is strong and fine, " I said, when he had finished. 

"Yes, " he assented. "It seems so as I read it now. It is so long sinceI have seen it that it is like reading another man's work. I should callit good, I believe. "

He put the manuscript in his bag and walked up and down the floortalking. 

"There is no figure for the human being like the ship, " he said; "no suchfigure for the storm-beaten human drift as the derelict--such men asClive and Hastings could only be imagined as derelicts adrift, helpless, tossed by every wind and tide. "

We returned to Redding next day. On the train going home he fell totalking of books and authors, mainly of the things he had never been ableto read. 

"When I take up one of Jane Austen's books, " he said, "such as Pride andPrejudice, I feel like a barkeeper entering the kingdom of heaven. Iknow, what his sensation would be and his private comments. He would notfind the place to his taste, and he would probably say so. "

He recalled again how Stepniak had come to Hartford, and how humiliatedMrs. Clemens had been to confess that her husband was not familiar withthe writings of Thackeray and others. 

"I don't know anything about anything, " he said, mournfully, "and neverdid. My brother used to try to get me to read Dickens, long ago. Icouldn't do it--I was ashamed; but I couldn't do it. Yes, I have readThe Tale of Two Cities, and could do it again. I have read it a goodmany times; but I never could stand Meredith and most of the othercelebrities. "

By and by he handed me the Saturday Times Review, saying:

"Here is a fine poem, a great poem, I think. I can stand that. "

It was "The Palatine (in the 'Dark Ages'), " by Willa Sibert Cather, reprinted from McClure's. The reader will understand better than I canexpress why these lofty opening stanzas appealed to Mark Twain:

 THE PALATINE

 "Have you been with the King to Rome, Brother, big brother?" "I've been there and I've come home, Back to your play, little brother. "

 "Oh, how high is Caesar's house, Brother, big brother?" "Goats about the doorways browse; Night-hawks nest in the burnt roof-tree, Home of the wild bird and home of the bee. A thousand chambers of marble lie Wide to the sun and the wind and the sky. Poppies we find amongst our wheat Grow on Caesar's banquet seat. Cattle crop and neatherds drowse On the floors of Caesar's house. "

 "But what has become of Caesar's gold, Brother, big brother?" "The times are bad and the world is old --Who knows the where of the Caesar's gold? Night comes black on the Caesar's hill; The wells are deep and the tales are ill. Fireflies gleam in the damp and mold, All that is left of the Caesar's gold. Back to your play, little brother. "

Farther along in our journey he handed me the paper again, pointing tothese lines of Kipling:

 How is it not good for the Christian's health To hurry the Aryan brown, For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles, And he weareth the Christian down; And the end of the fight is a tombstone white And the name of the late deceased: And the epitaph drear: "A fool lies here Who tried to hustle the East. "

"I could stand any amount of that, " he said, and presently: "Life is toolong and too short. Too long for the weariness of it; too short for thework to be done. At the very most, the average mind can only master afew languages and a little history. "

I said: "Still, we need not worry. If death ends all it does not matter;and if life is eternal there will be time enough. "

"Yes, " he assented, rather grimly, "that optimism of yours is alwaysready to turn hell's back yard into a playground. "

I said that, old as I was, I had taken up the study of French, andmentioned Bayard Taylor's having begun Greek at fifty, expecting to needit in heaven. 

Clemens said, reflectively: "Yes--but you see that was Greek. "

CCLXXXI

THE LAST SUMMER AT STORMFIELD

I was at Stormfield pretty constantly during the rest of that year. Atfirst I went up only for the day; but later, when his health did notimprove, and when he expressed a wish for companionship evenings, Iremained most of the nights as well. Our rooms were separated only by abath-room; and as neither of us was much given to sleep, there was likelyto be talk or reading aloud at almost any hour when both were awake. Inthe very early morning I would usually slip in, softly, sometimes to findhim propped up against his pillows sound asleep, his glasses on, thereading-lamp blazing away as it usually did, day or night; but as oftenas not he was awake, and would have some new plan or idea of which he waseager to be delivered, and there was always interest, and nearly alwaysamusement in it, even if it happened to be three in the morning orearlier. 

Sometimes, when he thought it time for me to be stirring, he would callsoftly, but loudly enough for me to hear if awake; and I would go in, andwe would settle again problems of life and death and science, or, rather, he would settle them while I dropped in a remark here and there, merelyto hold the matter a little longer in solution. 

The pains in his breast came back, and with a good deal of frequency asthe summer advanced; also, they became more severe. Dr. Edward Quintardcame up from New York, and did not hesitate to say that the troubleproceeded chiefly from the heart, and counseled diminished smoking, withless active exercise, advising particularly against Clemens's lifetimehabit of lightly skipping up and down stairs. 

There was no prohibition as to billiards, however, or leisurely walking, and we played pretty steadily through those peaceful summer days, andoften took a walk down into the meadows or perhaps in the otherdirection, when it was not too warm or windy. Once we went as far as theriver, and I showed him a part of his land he had not seen before--abeautiful cedar hillside, remote and secluded, a place of enchantment. Onthe way I pointed out a little corner of land which earlier he had givenme to straighten our division line. I told him I was going to build astudy on it, and call it "Markland. " He thought it an admirablebuilding-site, and I think he was pleased with the name. Later he said:

"If you had a place for that extra billiard-table of mine [the Rogerstable, which had been left in New York] I would turn it over to you. "

I replied that I could adapt the size of my proposed study to fit abilliard-table, and he said:

"Now that will be very good. Then, when I want exercise, I can walk downand play billiards with you, and when you want exercise you can walk upand play billiards with me. You must build that study. "

So it was we planned, and by and by Mr. Lounsbury had undertaken thework. 

During the walks Clemens rested a good deal. There were the New Englandhills to climb, and then he found that he tired easily, and thatweariness sometimes brought on the pain. As I remember now, I think howbravely he bore it. It must have been a deadly, sickening, numbing pain, for I have seen it crumple him, and his face become colorless while hishand dug at his breast; but he never complained, he never bewailed, andat billiards he would persist in going on and playing in his turn, evenwhile he was bowed with the anguish of the attack. 

We had found that a glass of very hot water relieved it, and we keptalways a thermos bottle or two filled and ready. At the first hint fromhim I would pour out a glass and another, and sometimes the relief camequickly; but there were times, and alas! they came oftener, when thatdeadly gripping did not soon release him. Yet there would come a week ora fortnight when he was apparently perfectly well, and at such times wedismissed the thought of any heart malady, and attributed the wholetrouble to acute indigestion, from which he had always suffered more orless. 

We were alone together most of the time. He did not appear to care forcompany that summer. Clara Clemens had a concert tour in prospect, andher father, eager for her success, encouraged her to devote a large partof her time to study. For Jean, who was in love with every form ofoutdoor and animal life, he had established headquarters in a vacantfarm-house on one corner of the estate, where she had collected somestock and poultry, and was over-flowingly happy. Ossip Gabrilowitsch wasa guest in the house a good portion of the summer, but had been invalidedthrough severe surgical operations, and for a long time rarely appeared, even at meal-times. So it came about that there could hardly have been acloser daily companionship than was ours during this the last year ofMark Twain's life. For me, of course, nothing can ever be like it againin this world. One is not likely to associate twice with a being fromanother star. 

CCLXXXII

PERSONAL MEMORANDA

In the notes I made of this period I caught a little drift of personalityand utterance, and I do not know better how to preserve these things thanto give them here as nearly as may be in the sequence and in the forth inwhich they were set down. 

One of the first of these entries occurs in June, when Clemens wasrereading with great interest and relish Andrew D. White's Science andTheology, which he called a lovely book. --['A History of the Warfare ofScience with Theology in Christendom'. ] June 21. A peaceful afternoon, and we walked farther than usual, resting at last in the shade of a tree in the lane that leads to Jean's farm-house. I picked a dandelion-ball, with some remark about its being one of the evidences of the intelligent principle in nature--the seeds winged for a wider distribution. 

 "Yes, " he said, "those are the great evidences; no one who reasons can doubt them. "

 And presently he added:

 "That is a most amusing book of White's. When you read it you see how those old theologians never reasoned at all. White tells of an old bishop who figured out that God created the world in an instant on a certain day in October exactly so many years before Christ, and proved it. And I knew a preacher myself once who declared that the fossils in the rocks proved nothing as to the age of the world. He said that God could create the rocks with those fossils in them for ornaments if He wanted to. Why, it takes twenty years to build a little island in the Mississippi River, and that man actually believed that God created the whole world and all that's in it in six days. White tells of another bishop who gave two new reasons for thunder; one being that God wanted to show the world His power, and another that He wished to frighten sinners to repent. Now consider the proportions of that conception, even in the pettiest way you can think of it. Consider the idea of God thinking of all that. Consider the President of the United States wanting to impress the flies and fleas and mosquitoes, getting up on the dome of the Capitol and beating a bass-drum and setting off red fire. "

He followed the theme a little further, then we made our way slowly backup the long hill, he holding to my arm, and resting here and there, butarriving at the house seemingly fresh and ready for billiards. 

 June 23. I came up this morning with a basket of strawberries. He was walking up and down, looking like an ancient Roman. He said:

 "Consider the case of Elsie Sigel--[Granddaughter of Gen. Franz Sigel. She was mysteriously murdered while engaged in settlement work among the Chinese. ]--what a ghastly ending to any life!"

 Then turning upon me fiercely, he continued:

 "Anybody that knows anything knows that there was not a single life that was ever lived that was worth living. Not a single child ever begotten that the begetting of it was not a crime. Suppose a community of people to be living on the slope of a volcano, directly under the crater and in the path of lava-flow; that volcano has been breaking out right along for ages and is certain to break out again. They do not know when it will break out, but they know it will do it--that much can be counted on. Suppose those people go to a community in a far neighborhood and say, 'We'd like to change places with you. Come take our homes and let us have yours. ' Those people would say, 'Never mind, we are not interested in your country. We know what has happened there, and what will happen again. ' We don't care to live under the blow that is likely to fall at any moment; and yet every time we bring a child into the world we are bringing it to a country, to a community gathered under the crater of a volcano, knowing that sooner or later death will come, and that before death there will be catastrophes infinitely worse. Formerly it was much worse than now, for before the ministers abolished hell a man knew, when he was begetting a child, that he was begetting a soul that had only one chance in a hundred of escaping the eternal fires of damnation. He knew that in all probability that child would be brought to damnation--one of the ninety-nine black sheep. But since hell has been abolished death has become more welcome. I wrote a fairy story once. It was published somewhere. I don't remember just what it was now, but the substance of it was that a fairy gave a man the customary wishes. I was interested in seeing what he would take. First he chose wealth and went away with it, but it did not bring him happiness. Then he came back for the second selection, and chose fame, and that did not bring happiness either. Finally he went to the fairy and chose death, and the fairy said, in substance, 'If you hadn't been a fool you'd have chosen that in the first place. '

 "The papers called me a pessimist for writing that story. Pessimist--the man who isn't a pessimist is a d---d fool. "

But this was one of his savage humors, stirred by tragic circumstance. Under date of July 5th I find this happier entry:

 We have invented a new game, three-ball carom billiards, each player continuing until he has made five, counting the number of his shots as in golf, the one who finishes in the fewer shots wins. It is a game we play with almost exactly equal skill, and he is highly pleased with it. He said this afternoon:

 "I have never enjoyed billiards as I do now. I look forward to it every afternoon as my reward at the end of a good day's work. "--[His work at this time was an article on Marjorie Fleming, the "wonder child, " whose quaint writings and brief little life had been published to the world by Dr. John Brown. Clemens always adored the thought of Marjorie, and in this article one can see that she ranked almost next to Joan of Arc in his affections. ]

We went out in the loggia by and by and Clemens read aloud from a bookwhich Professor Zubelin left here a few days ago--'The Religion of aDemocrat'. Something in it must have suggested to Clemens his favoritescience, for presently he said:

 "I have been reading an old astronomy; it speaks of the perfect line of curvature of the earth in spite of mountains and abysses, and I have imagined a man three hundred thousand miles high picking up a ball like the earth and looking at it and holding it in his hand. It would be about like a billiard-ball to him, and he would turn it over in his hand and rub it with his thumb, and where he rubbed over the mountain ranges he might say, 'There seems to be some slight roughness here, but I can't detect it with my eye; it seems perfectly smooth to look at. ' The Himalayas to him, the highest peak, would be one-sixty-thousandth of his height, or about the one- thousandth part of an inch as compared with the average man. "

I spoke of having somewhere read of some very tiny satellites, one assmall, perhaps, as six miles in diameter, yet a genuine world. 

"Could a man live on a world so small as that?" I asked. 

 "Oh yes, " he said. "The gravitation that holds it together would hold him on, and he would always seem upright, the same as here. His horizon would be smaller, but even if he were six feet tall he would only have one foot for each mile of that world's diameter, so you see he would be little enough, even for a world that he could walk around in half a day. "

He talked astronomy a great deal--marvel astronomy. He had no realknowledge of the subject, and I had none of any kind, which made itsungraspable facts all the more thrilling. He was always thrown into asort of ecstasy by the unthinkable distances of space--the supreme dramaof the universe. The fact that Alpha Centauri was twenty-five trillionsof miles away--two hundred and fifty thousand times the distance of ourown remote sun, and that our solar system was traveling, as a whole, toward the bright star Vega, in the constellation of Lyra, at the rate offorty-four miles a second, yet would be thousands upon thousands of yearsreaching its destination, fairly enraptured him. 

The astronomical light-year--that is to say, the distance which lighttravels in a year--was one of the things which he loved to contemplate;but he declared that no two authorities ever figured it alike, and thathe was going to figure it for himself. I came in one morning, to findthat he had covered several sheets of paper with almost interminable rowsof ciphers, and with a result, to him at least, entirely satisfactory. Iam quite certain that he was prouder of those figures and their enormousaggregate than if he had just completed an immortal tale; and when headded that the nearest fixed star--Alpha Centauri--was between four andfive light-years distant from the earth, and that there was no possibleway to think that distance in miles or even any calculable fraction ofit, his glasses shone and his hair was roached up as with the stimulationof these stupendous facts. 

By and by he said:

"I came in with Halley's comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointmentof my life if I don't go out with Halley's comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: 'Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came intogether, they must go out together. ' Oh! I am looking forward tothat. " And a little later he added:

"I've got some kind of a heart disease, and Quintard won't tell mewhether it is the kind that carries a man off in an instant or keeps himlingering along and suffering for twenty years or so. I was in hopesthat Quintard would tell me that I was likely to drop dead any minute;but he didn't. He only told me that my blood-pressure was too strong. Hedidn't give me any schedule; but I expect to go with Halley's comet. "

I seem to have omitted making any entries for a few days; but among hisnotes I find this entry, which seems to refer to some discussion of afavorite philosophy, and has a special interest of its own:

 July 14, 1909. Yesterday's dispute resumed, I still maintaining that, whereas we can think, we generally don't do it. Don't do it, & don't have to do it: we are automatic machines which act unconsciously. From morning till sleeping-time, all day long. All day long our machinery is doing things from habit & instinct, & without requiring any help or attention from our poor little 7-by-9 thinking apparatus. This reminded me of something: thirty years ago, in Hartford, the billiard-room was my study, & I wrote my letters there the first thing every morning. My table lay two points off the starboard bow of the billiard-table, & the door of exit and entrance bore northeast&-by-east-half-east from that position, consequently you could see the door across the length of the billiard-table, but you couldn't see the floor by the said table. I found I was always forgetting to ask intruders to carry my letters down-stairs for the mail, so I concluded to lay them on the floor by the door; then the intruder would have to walk over them, & that would indicate to him what they were there for. Did it? No, it didn't. He was a machine, & had habits. Habits take precedence of thought. 

 Now consider this: a stamped & addressed letter lying on the floor --lying aggressively & conspicuously on the floor--is an unusual spectacle; so unusual a spectacle that you would think an intruder couldn't see it there without immediately divining that it was not there by accident, but had been deliberately placed there & for a definite purpose. Very well--it may surprise you to learn that that most simple & most natural & obvious thought would never occur to any intruder on this planet, whether he be fool, half-fool, or the most brilliant of thinkers. For he is always an automatic machine & has habits, & his habits will act before his thinking apparatus can get a chance to exert its powers. My scheme failed because every human being has the habit of picking up any apparently misplaced thing & placing it where it won't be stepped on. 

 My first intruder was George. He went and came without saying anything. Presently I found the letters neatly piled up on the billiard-table. I was astonished. I put them on the floor again. The next intruder piled them on the billiard-table without a word. I was profoundly moved, profoundly interested. So I set the trap again. Also again, & again, & yet again--all day long. I caught every member of the family, & every servant; also I caught the three finest intellects in the town. In every instance old, time-worn automatic habit got in its work so promptly that the thinking apparatus never got a chance. 

I do not remember this particular discussion, but I do distinctly recallbeing one of those whose intelligence was not sufficient to prevent mypicking up the letter he had thrown on the floor in front of his bed, andbeing properly classified for doing it. 

Clemens no longer kept note-books, as in an earlier time, but set downinnumerable memoranda-comments, stray reminders, and the like--on smallpads, and bunches of these tiny sheets accumulated on his table and abouthis room. I gathered up many of them then and afterward, and a few ofthese characteristic bits may be offered here. 

 KNEE

It is at our mother's knee that we acquire our noblest & truest & highestideals, but there is seldom any money in them. 

 JEHOVAH

He is all-good. He made man for hell or hell for man, one or the other--take your choice. He made it hard to get into heaven and easy to getinto hell. He commended man to multiply & replenish-what? Hell. 

 MODESTY ANTEDATES CLOTHES

& will be resumed when clothes are no more. [The latter part of thisaphorism is erased and underneath it he adds:]

 MODESTY DIED

when clothes were born. 

 MODESTY DIEDwhen false modesty was born. 

 HISTORY

A historian who would convey the truth has got to lie. Often he mustenlarge the truth by diameters, otherwise his reader would not be able tosee it. 

 MORALS

are not the important thing--nor enlightenment--nor civilization. A mancan do absolutely well without them, but he can't do without something toeat. The supremest thing is the needs of the body, not of the mind &spirit. 

 SUGGESTION

There is conscious suggestion & there is unconscious suggestion--bothcome from outside--whence all ideas come. 

 DUELS

I think I could wipe out a dishonor by crippling the other man, but Idon't see how I could do it by letting him cripple me. 

I have no feeling of animosity toward people who do not believe as I do;I merely do not respect 'em. In some serious matters (relig. ) I wouldhave them burnt. 

I am old now and once was a sinner. I often think of it with a kind ofsoft regret. I trust my days are numbered. I would not have that detailoverlooked. 

She was always a girl, she was always young because her heart was young;& I was young because she lived in my heart & preserved its youth fromdecay. 

He often busied himself working out more extensively some of the ideasthat came to him--moral ideas, he called them. One fancy which hefollowed in several forms (some of them not within the privilege ofprint) was that of an inquisitive little girl, Bessie, who pursues hermother with difficult questionings. --[Under Appendix w, at the end ofthis volume, the reader will find one of the "Bessie" dialogues. ]--Heread these aloud as he finished them, and it is certain that they lackedneither logic nor humor. 

Sometimes he went to a big drawer in his dresser, where he kept hisfinished manuscripts, and took them out and looked over them, and readparts of them aloud, and talked of the plans he had had for them, and howone idea after another had been followed for a time and had failed tosatisfy him in the end. 

Two fiction schemes that had always possessed him he had been unable tobring to any conclusion. Both of these have been mentioned in formerchapters; one being the notion of a long period of dream-existence duringa brief moment of sleep, and the other being the story of a mysteriousvisitant from another realm. He had experimented with each of theseideas in no less than three forms, and there was fine writing anddramatic narrative in all; but his literary architecture had somehowfallen short of his conception. "The Mysterious Stranger" in one of itsforms I thought might be satisfactorily concluded, and he admitted thathe could probably end it without much labor. He discussed something ofhis plans, and later I found the notes for its conclusion. But I supposehe was beyond the place where he could take up those old threads, thoughhe contemplated, fondly enough, the possibility, and recalled how he hadread at least one form of the dream tale to Howells, who had urged him tocomplete it. 

CCLXXXIII

ASTRONOMY AND DREAMS

August 5, 1909. This morning I noticed on a chair a copy of Flaubert'sSalammbo which I recently lent him. I asked if he liked it. 

"No, " he said, "I didn't like any of it. "

"But you read it?"

"Yes, I read every line of it. "

"You admitted its literary art?"

"Well, it's like this: If I should go to the Chicago stockyards and theyshould kill a beef and cut it up and the blood should splash all overeverything, and then they should take me to another pen and kill anotherbeef and the blood should splash over everything again, and so on to penafter pen, I should care for it about as much as I do for that book. "

"But those were bloody days, and you care very much for that period inhistory. "

"Yes, that is so. But when I read Tacitus and know that I am readinghistory I can accept it as such and supply the imaginary details andenjoy it, but this thing is such a continuous procession of blood andslaughter and stench it worries me. It has great art--I can see that. That scene of the crucified lions and the death canon and the tent sceneare marvelous, but I wouldn't read that book again without a salary. "

August 16. He is reading Suetonius, which he already knows by heart--sofull of the cruelties and licentiousness of imperial Rome. 

This afternoon he began talking about Claudius. 

"They called Claudius a lunatic, " he said, "but just see what nicefancies he had. He would go to the arena between times and have captivesand wild beasts brought out and turned in together for his specialenjoyment. Sometimes when there were no captives on hand he would say, 'Well, never mind; bring out a carpenter. ' Carpentering around the arenawasn't a popular job in those days. He went visiting once to a provinceand thought it would be pleasant to see how they disposed of criminalsand captives in their crude, old-fashioned way, but there was noexecutioner on hand. No matter; the Emperor of Rome was in no hurry--hewould wait. So he sat down and stayed there until an executioner came. "

I said, "How do you account for the changed attitude toward these things?We are filled with pity to-day at the thought of torture and suffering. "

"Ah! but that is because we have drifted that way and exercised thequality of compassion. Relax a muscle and it soon loses its vigor; relaxthat quality and in two generations--in one generation--we should begloating over the spectacle of blood and torture just the same. Why, Iread somewhere a letter written just before the Lisbon catastrophe in1755 about a scene on the public square of Lisbon: A lot of stakes withthe fagots piled for burning and heretics chained for burning. Thesquare was crowded with men and women and children, and when those fireswere lighted, and the heretics began to shriek and writhe, those men andwomen and children laughed so they were fairly beside themselves with theenjoyment of the scene. The Greeks don't seem to have done these things. I suppose that indicates earlier advancement in compassion. "

Colonel Harvey and Mr. Duneka came up to spend the night. Mr. Clemenshad one of his seizures during the evening. They come oftener and lastlonger. One last night continued for an hour and a half. I slept there. 

September 7. To-day news of the North Pole discovered by Peary. Fivedays ago the same discovery was reported by Cook. Clemens's comment:"It's the greatest joke of the ages. " But a moment later he referred tothe stupendous fact of Arcturus being fifty thousand times as big as thesun. 

September 21. This morning he told me, with great glee, the dream he hadhad just before wakening. He said:

 "I was in an automobile going slowly, with 'a little girl beside me, and some uniformed person walking along by us. I said, 'I'll get out and walk, too'; but the officer replied, 'This is only one of the smallest of our fleet. '

 "Then I noticed that the automobile had no front, and there were two cannons mounted where the front should be. I noticed, too, that we were traveling very low, almost down on the ground. Presently we got to the bottom of a hill and started up another, and I found myself walking ahead of the 'mobile. I turned around to look for the little girl, and instead of her I found a kitten capering beside me, and when we reached the top of the hill we were looking out over a most barren and desolate waste of sand-heaps without a speck of vegetation anywhere, and the kitten said, 'This view beggars all admiration. ' Then all at once we were in a great group of people and I undertook to repeat to them the kitten's remark, but when I tried to do it the words were so touching that I broke down and cried, and all the group cried, too, over the kitten's moving remark. "

 The joy with which he told this absurd sleep fancy made it supremely ridiculous and we laughed until tears really came. 

One morning he said: "I was awake a good deal in the night, and I triedto think of interesting things. I got to working out geological periods, trying to think of some way to comprehend them, and then astronomicalperiods. Of course it's impossible, but I thought of a plan that seemedto mean something to me. I remembered that Neptune is two billion eighthundred million miles away. That, of course, is incomprehensible, butthen there is the nearest fixed star with its twenty-five trillion miles--twenty-five trillion--or nearly a thousand times as far, and then Itook this book and counted the lines on a page and I found that there wasan average of thirty-two lines to the page and two hundred and fortypages, and I figured out that, counting the distance to Neptune as oneline, there were still not enough lines in the book by nearly twothousand to reach the nearest fixed star, and somehow that gave me a sortof dim idea of the vastness of the distance and kind of a journey intospace. "

Later I figured out another method of comprehending a little of thatgreat distance by estimating the existence of the human race at thirtythousand years (Lord Kelvin's figures) and the average generation to havebeen thirty-three years with a world population of 1, 500, 000, 000 souls. Iassumed the nearest fixed star to be the first station in Paradise andthe first soul to have started thirty thousand years ago. Traveling atthe rate of about thirty miles a second, it would just now be arriving inAlpha Centauri with all the rest of that buried multitude stringing outbehind at an average distance of twenty miles apart. 

Few things gave him more pleasure than the contemplation of such figuresas these. We made occasional business trips to New York, and during oneof them visited the Museum of Natural History to look at the brontosaurand the meteorites and the astronomical model in the entrance hall. Tohim these were the most fascinating things in the world. He contemplatedthe meteorites and the brontosaur, and lost himself in strange andmarvelous imaginings concerning the far reaches of time and space whencethey had come down to us. 

Mark Twain lived curiously apart from the actualities of life. Dwellingmainly among his philosophies and speculations, he observed vaguely, orminutely, what went on about him; but in either case the fact took aplace, not in the actual world, but in a world within his consciousness, or subconsciousness, a place where facts were likely to assume new andaltogether different relations from those they had borne in the physicaloccurrence. It not infrequently happened, therefore, when he recountedsome incident, even the most recent, that history took on fresh andstartling forms. More than once I have known him to relate an occurrenceof the day before with a reality of circumstance that carried absoluteconviction, when the details themselves were precisely reversed. If hisattention were called to the discrepancy, his face would take on a blanklook, as of one suddenly aroused from dreamland, to be followed by analmost childish interest in your revelation and ready acknowledgment ofhis mistake. I do not think such mistakes humiliated him; but they oftensurprised and, I think, amused him. 

Insubstantial and deceptive as was this inner world of his, to him itmust have been much more real than the world of flitting physical shapesabout him. He would fix you keenly with his attention, but you realized, at last, that he was placing you and seeing you not as a part of thematerial landscape, but as an item of his own inner world--a world inwhich philosophies and morals stood upright--a very good world indeed, but certainly a topsy-turvy world when viewed with the eye of mereliteral scrutiny. And this was, mainly, of course, because the routineof life did not appeal to him. Even members of his household did notalways stir his consciousness. 

He knew they were there; he could call them by name; he relied upon them;but his knowledge of them always suggested the knowledge that MountEverest might have of the forests and caves and boulders upon its slopes, useful, perhaps, but hardly necessary to the giant's existence, and in noimportant matter a part of its greater life. 

CCLXXXIV

A LIBRARY CONCERT

In a letter which Clemens wrote to Miss Wallace at this time, he tells ofa concert given at Stormfield on September 21st for the benefit of thenew Redding Library. Gabrilowitsch had so far recovered that he was upand about and able to play. David Bispham, the great barytone, alwaysgenial and generous, agreed to take part, and Clara Clemens, alreadyaccustomed to public singing, was to join in the program. The letter toMiss Wallace supplies the rest of the history. 

 We had a grand time here yesterday. Concert in aid of the little library. 

 TEAM

 Gabrilowitsch, pianist. David Bispham, vocalist. Clara Clemens, ditto. Mark Twain, introduces of team. 

 Detachments and squads and groups and singles came from everywhere --Danbury, New Haven, Norwalk, Redding, Redding Ridge, Ridgefield, and even from New York: some in 60-h. P. Motor-cars, some in buggies and carriages, and a swarm of farmer-young-folk on foot from miles around--525 altogether. 

 If we hadn't stopped the sale of tickets a day and a half before the performance we should have been swamped. We jammed 160 into the library (not quite all had seats), we filled the loggia, the dining- room, the hall, clear into the billiard-room, the stairs, and the brick-paved square outside the dining-room door. 

 The artists were received with a great welcome, and it woke them up, and I tell you they performed to the Queen's taste! The program was an hour and three-quarters long and the encores added a half-hour to it. The enthusiasm of the house was hair-lifting. They all stayed an hour after the close to shake hands and congratulate. 

 We had no dollar seats except in the library, but we accumulated $372 for the Building Fund. We had tea at half past six for a dozen--the Hawthornes, Jeannette Gilder, and her niece, etc. ; and after 8-o'clock dinner we had a private concert and a ball in the bare-stripped library until 10; nobody present but the team and Mr. And Mrs. Paine and Jean and her dog. And me. Bispham did "Danny Deever" and the "Erlkonig" in his majestic, great organ-tones and artillery, and Gabrilowitsch played the accompaniments as they were never played before, I do suppose. 

There is not much to add to that account. Clemens, introducing theperformers, was the gay feature of the occasion. He spoke of the greatreputation of Bispham and Gabrilowitsch; then he said:

"My daughter is not as famous as these gentlemen, but she is ever so muchbetter-looking. "

The music of the evening that followed, with Gabrilowitsch at the pianoand David Bispham to sing, was something not likely ever to be repeated. Bispham sang the "Erlkonig" and "Killiecrankie" and the "Grenadiers" andseveral other songs. He spoke of having sung Wagner's arrangement of the"Grenadiers" at the composer's home following his death, and how none ofthe family had heard it before. 

There followed dancing, and Jean Clemens, fine and handsome, apparentlyfull of life and health, danced down that great living-room as care-freeas if there was no shadow upon her life. And the evening wasdistinguished in another way, for before it ended Clara Clemens hadpromised Ossip Gabrilowitsch to become his wife. 

CCLXXXV

A WEDDING AT STORMFIELD

The wedding of Ossip Gabrilowitsch and Clara Clemens was not delayed. Gabrilowitsch had signed for a concert tour in Europe, and unless themarriage took place forthwith it must be postponed many months. Itfollowed, therefore, fifteen days after the engagement. They were busydays. Clemens, enormously excited and pleased over the prospect of thefirst wedding in his family, personally attended to the selection ofthose who were to have announcement-cards, employing a stenographer tomake the list. 

October 6th was a perfect wedding-day. It was one of those quiet, lovelyfall days when the whole world seems at peace. Claude, the butler, withhis usual skill in such matters, had decorated the great living-room withgay autumn foliage and flowers, brought in mainly from the woods andfields. They blended perfectly with the warm tones of the walls andfurnishings, and I do not remember ever having seen a more beautifulroom. Only relatives and a few of the nearest friends were invited tothe ceremony. The Twichells came over a day ahead, for Twichell, who hadassisted in the marriage rites between Samuel Clemens and Olivia Langdon, was to perform that ceremony for their daughter now. A fellow-student ofthe bride and groom when they had been pupils of Leschetizky, in Vienna--Miss Ethel Newcomb--was at the piano and played softly the WeddingMarch from "Taunhauser. " Jean Clemens was the only bridesmaid, and shewas stately and classically beautiful, with a proud dignity in heroffice. Jervis Langdon, the bride's cousin and childhood playmate, actedas best man, and Clemens, of course, gave the bride away. By request hewore his scarlet Oxford gown over his snowy flannels, and was splendidbeyond words. I do not write of the appearance of the bride and groom, for brides and grooms are always handsome and always happy, and certainlythese were no exception. It was all so soon over, the feasting ended, and the principals whirling away into the future. I have a picture in mymind of them seated together in the automobile, with Richard WatsonGilder standing on the step for a last good-by, and before them a wideexpanse of autumn foliage and distant hills. I remember Gilder's voicesaying, when the car was on the turn, and they were waving back to us:

 "Over the hills and far away, Beyond the utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, beyond the day, Through all the world she followed him. "

The matter of the wedding had been kept from the newspapers until the eveof the wedding, when the Associated Press had been notified. Arepresentative was there; but Clemens had characteristically interviewedhimself on the subject, and it was only necessary to hand the reporter atypewritten copy. Replying to the question (put to himself), "Are youpleased with the marriage?" he answered:

 Yes, fully as much as any marriage could please me or any other father. There are two or three solemn things in life and a happy marriage is one of them, for the terrors of life are all to come. I am glad of this marriage, and Mrs. Clemens would be glad, for she always had a warm affection for Gabrilowitsch. 

There was another wedding at Stormfield on the following afternoon--animitation wedding. Little Joy came up with me, and wished she couldstand in just the spot where she had seen the bride stand, and sheexpressed a wish that she could get married like that. Clemens said:

"Frankness is a jewel; only the young can afford it. "

Then he happened to remember a ridiculous boy-doll--a white-hairedcreature with red coat and green trousers, a souvenir imitation ofhimself from one of the Rogerses' Christmas trees. He knew where it was, and he got it out. Then he said:

"Now, Joy, we will have another wedding. This is Mr. Colonel Williams, and you are to become his wedded wife. "

So Joy stood up very gravely and Clemens performed the ceremony, and Igave the bride away, and Joy to him became Mrs. Colonel Williamsthereafter, and entered happily into her new estate. 

CCLXXXVI

AUTUMN DAYS

A harvest of letters followed the wedding: a general congratulatoryexpression, mingled with admiration, affection, and good-will. In hisinterview Clemens had referred to the pain in his breast; and many beggedhim to deny that there was anything serious the matter with him, urginghim to try this relief or that, pathetically eager for his continued lifeand health. They cited the comfort he had brought to world-wearyhumanity and his unfailing stand for human justice as reasons why heshould live. Such letters could not fail to cheer him. 

A letter of this period, from John Bigelow, gave him a pleasure of itsown. Clemens had written Bigelow, apropos of some adverse expression onthe tariff:

 Thank you for any hard word you can say about the tariff. I guess the government that robs its own people earns the future it is preparing for itself. 

Bigelow was just then declining an invitation to the annual dinner of theChamber of Commerce. In sending his regrets he said:

 The sentiment I would propose if I dared to be present would be the words of Mark Twain, the statesman:

 "The government that robs its own people earns the future it is preparing for itself. "

Now to Clemens himself he wrote:

 Rochefoucault never said a cleverer thing, nor Dr. Franklin a wiser one . . . . Be careful, or the Demos will be running you for President when you are not on your guard. 

 Yours more than ever, JOHN BIGELOW. 

Among the tributes that came, was a sermon by the Rev. Fred Window Adams, of Schenectady, New York, with Mark Twain as its subject. Mr. Adamschose for his text, "Take Mark and bring him with thee; for he isprofitable for the ministry, " and he placed the two Marks, St. Mark andMark Twain, side by side as ministers to humanity, and characterized himas "a fearless knight of righteousness. " A few weeks later Mr. Adamshimself came to Stormfield, and, like all open-minded ministers of theGospel, he found that he could get on very well indeed with Mark Twain. 

In spite of the good-will and the good wishes Clemens's malady did notimprove. As the days grew chillier he found that he must remain closerindoors. The cold air seemed to bring on the pains, and they weregradually becoming more severe; then, too, he did not follow the doctor'sorders in the matter of smoking, nor altogether as to exercise. 

To Miss Wallace he wrote:

I can't walk, I can't drive, I'm not down-stairs much, and I don't seecompany, but I drink barrels of water to keep the pain quiet; I read, andread, and read, and smoke, and smoke, and smoke all the time (asformerly), and it's a contented and comfortable life. 

But this was not altogether accurate as to details. He did comedown-stairs many times daily, and he persisted in billiards regardless ofthe paroxysms. We found, too, that the seizures were induced by mentalagitation. One night he read aloud to Jean and myself the first chapterof an article, "The Turning-Point in My Life, " which he was preparing forHarper's Bazar. He had begun it with one of his impossible burlesquefancies, and he felt our attitude of disappointment even before any wordhad been said. Suddenly he rose, and laying his hand on his breast said, "I must lie down, " and started toward the stair. I supported him to hisroom and hurriedly poured out the hot water. He drank it and droppedback on the bed. 

"Don't speak to me, " he said; "don't make me talk. "

Jean came in, and we sat there several moments in silence. I think weboth wondered if this might not be the end; but presently he spoke of hisown accord, declaring he was better, and ready for billiards. 

We played for at least an hour afterward, and he seemed no worse for theattack. It is a curious malady--that angina; even the doctors areacquainted with its manifestations, rather than its cause. Clemens'sgeneral habits of body and mind were probably not such as to delay itsprogress; furthermore, there had befallen him that year one of thosemisfortunes which his confiding nature peculiarly invited--a betrayal oftrust by those in whom it had been boundlessly placed--and it seemslikely that the resulting humiliation aggravated his complaint. Thewriting of a detailed history of this episode afforded him occupation anda certain amusement, but probably did not contribute to his health. Oneday he sent for his attorney, Mr. Charles T. Lark, and made some finalrevisions in his will. --[Mark Twain's estate, later appraised atsomething more than $600, 000 was left in the hands of trustees for hisdaughters. The trustees were Edward E. Loomis, Jervis Langdon, andZoheth S. Freeman. The direction of his literary affairs was left to hisdaughter Clara and the writer of this history. ]

To see him you would never have suspected that he was ill. He was ingood flesh, and his movement was as airy and his eye as bright and hisface as full of bloom as at any time during the period I had known him;also, he was as light-hearted and full of ideas and plans, and he waseven gentler--having grown mellow with age and retirement, like goodwine. 

And of course he would find amusement in his condition. He said:

"I have always pretended to be sick to escape visitors; now, for thefirst time, I have got a genuine excuse. It makes me feel so honest. "

And once, when Jean reported a caller in the livingroom, he said:

"Jean, I can't see her. Tell her I am likely to drop dead any minute andit would be most embarrassing. "

But he did see her, for it was a poet--Angela Morgan--and he read herpoem, "God's Man, " aloud with great feeling, and later he sold it for herto Collier's Weekly. 

He still had violent rages now and then, remembering some of the mostnotable of his mistakes; and once, after denouncing himself, ratherinclusively, as an idiot, he said:

"I wish to God the lightning would strike me; but I've wished that fiftythousand times and never got anything out of it yet. I have missedseveral good chances. Mrs. Clemens was afraid of lightning, and wouldnever let me bare my head to the storm. "

The element of humor was never lacking, and the rages became less violentand less frequent. 

I was at Stormfield steadily now, and there was a regular routine ofafternoon sessions of billiards or reading, in which we were generallyalone; for Jean, occupied with her farming and her secretary labors, seldom appeared except at meal-times. Occasionally she joined in thebilliard games; but it was difficult learning and her interest was notgreat. She would have made a fine player, for she had a natural talentfor games, as she had for languages, and she could have mastered thescience of angles as she had mastered tennis and French and German andItalian. She had naturally a fine intellect, with many of her father'scharacteristics, and a tender heart that made every dumb creature herfriend. 

Katie Leary, who had been Jean's nurse, once told how, as a little child, Jean had not been particularly interested in a picture of the Lisbonearthquake, where the people were being swallowed up; but on looking atthe next page, which showed a number of animals being overwhelmed, shehad said:

"Poor things!"

Katie said:

"Why, you didn't say that about the people!"

But Jean answered:

"Oh, they could speak. "

One night at the dinner-table her father was saying how difficult it mustbe for a man who had led a busy life to give up the habit of work. 

"That is why the Rogerses kill themselves, " he said. "They would ratherkill themselves in the old treadmill than stop and try to kill time. Theyhave forgotten how to rest. They know nothing but to keep on till theydrop. "

I told of something I had read not long before. It was about an agedlion that had broken loose from his cage at Coney Island. He had notoffered to hurt any one; but after wandering about a little, ratheraimlessly, he had come to a picket-fence, and a moment later began pacingup and down in front of it, just the length of his cage. They had comeand led him back to his prison without trouble, and he had rushed eagerlyinto it. I noticed that Jean was listening anxiously, and when Ifinished she said:

"Is that a true story?"

She had forgotten altogether the point in illustration. She wasconcerned only with the poor old beast that had found no joy in hisliberty. 

Among the letters that Clemens wrote just then was one to Miss Wallace, in which he described the glory of the fall colors as seen from hiswindows. 

 The autumn splendors passed you by? What a pity! I wish you had been here. It was beyond words! It was heaven & hell & sunset & rainbows & the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, & you couldn't look at it and keep the tears back. 

 Such a singing together, & such a whispering together, & such a snuggling together of cozy, soft colors, & such kissing & caressing, & such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out & catches those dainty weeds at it--you remember that weed-garden of mine?--& then --then the far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance--oh, hearing about it is nothing, you should be here to see it!

In the same letter he refers to some work that he was writing for his ownsatisfaction--'Letters from the Earth'; said letters supposed to havebeen written by an immortal visitant and addressed to other immortals insome remote sphere. 

 I'll read passages to you. This book will never be published --in fact it couldn't be, because it would be felony . . . Paine enjoys it, but Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I suppose. 

I very well remember his writing those 'Letters from the Earth'. He readthem to me from time to time as he wrote them, and they were fairlyoverflowing with humor and philosophy and satire concerning the humanrace. The immortal visitor pointed out, one after another, theabsurdities of mankind, his ridiculous conception of heaven, and hisspecial conceit in believing that he was the Creator's pet--theparticular form of life for which all the universe was created. Clemensallowed his exuberant fancy free rein, being under no restrictions as tothe possibility of print or public offense. He enjoyed them himself, too, as he read them aloud, and we laughed ourselves weak over his boldimaginings. 

One admissible extract will carry something of the flavor of thesechapters. It is where the celestial correspondent describes man'sreligion. 

 His heaven is like himself: strange, interesting, astonishing, grotesque. I give you my word it has not a single feature in it that he actually values. It consists--utterly and entirely--of diversions which he cares next to nothing about here in the earth, yet he is quite sure he will like in heaven. Isn't it curious? Isn't it interesting? You must not think I am exaggerating, for it is not so. I will give you the details. 

 Most, men do not sing, most men cannot sing, most men will not stay where others are singing if it be continued more than two hours. Note that. 

 Only about two men in a hundred can play upon a musical instrument, and not four in a hundred have any wish to learn how. Set that down. 

 Many men pray, not many of them like to do it. A few pray long, the others make a short-cut. 

 More men go to church than want to. 

 To forty-nine men in fifty the Sabbath day is a dreary, dreary bore. 

 Further, all sane people detest noise. 

 All people, sane or insane, like to have variety in their lives. Monotony quickly wearies them. 

 Now then, you have the facts. You know what men don't enjoy. Well, they have invented a heaven, out of their own heads, all by themselves; guess what it is like? In fifteen hundred years you couldn't do it. They have left out the very things they care for most their dearest pleasures--and replaced them with prayer!

 In man's heaven everybody sings. There are no exceptions. The man who did not sing on earth sings there; the man who could not sing on earth sings there. Thus universal singing is not casual, not occasional, not relieved by intervals of quiet; it goes on all day long and every day during a stretch of twelve hours. And everybody stays where on earth the place would be empty in two hours. The singing is of hymns alone. Nay, it is one hymn alone. The words are always the same in number--they are only about a dozen--there is no rhyme--there is no poetry. "Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna unto the highest!" and a few such phrases constitute the whole service. 

 Meantime, every person is playing on a harp! Consider the deafening hurricane of sound. Consider, further, it is a praise service--a service of compliment, flattery, adulation. Do you ask who it is that is willing to endure this strange compliment, this insane compliment, and who not only endures it but likes it, enjoys it, requires it, commands it? Hold your breath: It is God! This race's God I mean--their own pet invention. 

Most of the ideas presented in this his last commentary on humanabsurdities were new only as to phrasing. He had exhausted the topiclong ago, in one way or another; but it was one of the themes in which henever lost interest. Many subjects became stale to him at last; but thecurious invention called man remained a novelty to him to the end. 

From my note-book:

 October 25. I am constantly amazed at his knowledge of history--all history--religious, political, military. He seems to have read everything in the world concerning Rome, France, and England particularly. 

 Last night we stopped playing billiards while he reviewed, in the most vivid and picturesque phrasing, the reasons of Rome's decline. Such a presentation would have enthralled any audience--I could not help feeling a great pity that he had not devoted some of his public effort to work of that sort. No one could have equaled him at it. He concluded with some comments on the possibility of America following Rome's example, though he thought the vote of the people would always, or at least for a long period, prevent imperialism. 

 November 1. To-day he has been absorbed in his old interest in shorthand. "It is the only rational alphabet, " he declared. "All this spelling reform is nonsense. What we need is alphabet reform, and shorthand is the thing. Take the letter M, for instance; it is made with one stroke in shorthand, while in longhand it requires at least three. The word Mephistopheles can be written in shorthand with one-sixth the number of strokes that is required in longhand. I tell you shorthand should be adopted as the alphabet. "

 I said: "There is this objection: the characters are so slightly different that each writer soon forms a system of his own and it is seldom that two can read each other's notes. "

 "You are talking of stenographic reporting, " he said, rather warmly. "Nothing of the kind is true in the case of the regular alphabet. It is perfectly clear and legible. "

 "Would you have it in the schools, then?"

 "Yes, it should be taught in the schools, not for stenographic purposes, but only for use in writing to save time. "

 He was very much in earnest, and said he had undertaken an article on the subject. 

 November 3. He said he could not sleep last night, for thinking what a fool he had been in his various investments. 

 "I have always been the victim of somebody, " he said, "and always an idiot myself, doing things that even a child would not do. Never asking anybody's advice--never taking it when it was offered. I can't see how anybody could do the things I have done and have kept right on doing. " I could see that the thought agitated him, and I suggested that we go to his room and read, which we did, and had a riotous time over the most recent chapters of the 'Letters from the Earth', and some notes he had made for future chapters on infant damnation and other distinctive features of orthodox creeds. He told an anecdote of an old minister who declared that Presbyterianism without infant damnation would be like the dog on the train that couldn't be identified because it had lost its tag. 

 Somewhat on the defensive I said, "But we must admit that the so- called Christian nations are the most enlightened and progressive. "

 He answered, "Yes, but in spite of their religion, not because of it. The Church has opposed every innovation and discovery from the day of Galileo down to our own time, when the use of anesthetics in child-birth was regarded as a sin because it avoided the biblical curse pronounced against Eve. And every step in astronomy and geology ever taken has been opposed by bigotry and superstition. The Greeks surpassed us in artistic culture and in architecture five hundred years before the Christian religion was born. 

 "I have been reading Gibbon's celebrated Fifteenth Chapter, " he said later, "and I don't see what Christians found against it. It is so mild--so gentle in its sarcasm. " He added that he had been reading also a little book of brief biographies and had found in it the saying of Darwin's father, "Unitarianism is a featherbed to catch falling Christians. "

 "I was glad to find and identify that saying, " he said; "it is so good. "

 He finished the evening by reading a chapter from Carlyle's French Revolution--a fine pyrotechnic passage--the gathering at Versailles. I said that Carlyle somehow reminded me of a fervid stump-speaker who pounded his fists and went at his audience fiercely, determined to convince them. 

 "Yes, " he said, "but he is the best one that ever lived. "

 November 10. This morning early he heard me stirring and called. I went in and found him propped up with a book, as usual. He said:

 "I seldom read Christmas stories, but this is very beautiful. It has made me cry. I want you to read it. " (It was Booth Tarkington's 'Beasley's Christmas Party'. ) "Tarkington has the true touch, " he said; "his work always satisfies me. " Another book he has been reading with great enjoyment is James Branch Cabell's Chivalry. He cannot say enough of the subtle poetic art with which Cabell has flung the light of romance about dark and sordid chapters of history. 

CCLXXVII

MARK TWAIN'S READING

Perhaps here one may speak of Mark Twain's reading in general. On thetable by him, and on his bed, and in the billiard-room shelves he keptthe books he read most. They were not many--not more than a dozen--butthey were manifestly of familiar and frequent usage. All, or nearly all, had annotations--spontaneously uttered marginal notes, title prefatories, or concluding comments. They were the books he had read again and again, and it was seldom that he had not had something to say with each freshreading. 

There were the three big volumes by Saint-Simon--'The Memoirs'--which heonce told me he had read no less than twenty times. On the fly-leaf ofthe first volume he wrote--

This, & Casanova & Pepys, set in parallel columns, could afford a goodcoup d'oeil of French & English high life of that epoch. 

All through those finely printed volumes are his commentaries, sometimesno more than a word, sometimes a filled, closely written margin. Hefound little to admire in the human nature of Saint-Simon's period--little to approve in Saint-Simon himself beyond his unrestrainedfrankness, which he admired without stint, and in one paragraph where thedetails of that early period are set down with startling fidelity hewrote: "Oh, incomparable Saint-Simon!"

Saint-Simon is always frank, and Mark Twain was equally so. Where theformer tells one of the unspeakable compulsions of Louis XIV. , the latterhas commented:

We have to grant that God made this royal hog; we may also be permittedto believe that it was a crime to do so. 

And on another page:

In her memories of this period the Duchesse de St. Clair makes thisstriking remark: "Sometimes one could tell a gentleman, but it was onlyby his manner of using his fork. "

His comments on the orthodox religion of Saint-Simon's period are notmarked by gentleness. Of the author's reference to the Edict of Nantes, which he says depopulated half of the realm, ruined its commerce, and"authorized torments and punishments by which so many innocent people ofboth sexes were killed by thousands, " Clemens writes:

So much blood has been shed by the Church because of an omission from theGospel: "Ye shall be indifferent as to what your neighbor's religion is. "Not merely tolerant of it, but indifferent to it. Divinity is claimedfor many religions; but no religion is great enough or divine enough toadd that new law to its code. 

In the place where Saint-Simon describes the death of Monseigneur, son ofthe king, and the court hypocrites are wailing their extravagantlypretended sorrow, Clemens wrote:

It is all so true, all so human. God made these animals. He must havenoticed this scene; I wish I knew how it struck Him. 

There were not many notes in the Suetonius, nor in the CarlyleRevolution, though these were among the volumes he read oftenest. Perhapsthey expressed for him too completely and too richly their subject-matterto require anything at his hand. Here and there are marked passages andoccasional cross-references to related history and circumstance. 

There was not much room for comment on the narrow margins of the old copyof Pepys, which he had read steadily since the early seventies; but hereand there a few crisp words, and the underscoring and marked passages areplentiful enough to convey his devotion to that quaint record which, perhaps next to Suetonius, was the book he read and quoted most. 

Francis Parkman's Canadian Histories he had read periodically, especiallythe story of the Old Regime and of the Jesuits in North America. As lateas January, 1908, he wrote on the title-page of the Old Regime:

Very interesting. It tells how people religiously and otherwise insanecame over from France and colonized Canada. 

He was not always complimentary to those who undertook to Christianizethe Indians; but he did not fail to write his admiration of theircourage--their very willingness to endure privation and even the fiendishsavage tortures for the sake of their faith. "What manner of men arethese?" he wrote, apropos of the account of Bressani, who had undergonethe most devilish inflictions which savage ingenuity could devise, andyet returned maimed and disfigured the following spring to "dare againthe knives and fiery brand of the Iroquois. " Clemens was likely to be onthe side of the Indians, but hardly in their barbarism. In one place hewrote:

 That men should be willing to leave their happy homes and endure what the missionaries endured in order to teach these Indians the road to hell would be rational, understandable, but why they should want to teach them a way to heaven is a thing which the mind somehow cannot grasp. 

Other histories, mainly English and French, showed how he had read them--read and digested every word and line. There were two volumes ofLecky, much worn; Andrew D. White's 'Science and Theology'--a chiefinterest for at least one summer--and among the collection a well-worncopy of 'Modern English Literature--Its Blemishes and Defects', by HenryH. Breen. On the title-page of this book Clemens had written:

 HARTFORD, 1876. Use with care, for it is a scarce book. England had to be ransacked in order to get it--or the bookseller speaketh falsely. 

He once wrote a paper for the Saturday Morning Club, using for his textexamples of slipshod English which Breen had noted. 

Clemens had a passion for biography, and especially for autobiography, diaries, letters, and such intimate human history. Greville's 'Journalof the Reigns of George IV. And William IV. ' he had read much andannotated freely. Greville, while he admired Byron's talents, abhorredthe poet's personality, and in one place condemns him as a vicious personand a debauchee. He adds:

Then he despises pretenders and charlatans of all sorts, while he ishimself a pretender, as all men are who assume a character which does notbelong to them and affect to be something which they are all the timeconscious they are not in reality. 

Clemens wrote on the margin:

 But, dear sir, you are forgetting that what a man sees in the human race is merely himself in the deep and honest privacy of his own heart. Byron despised the race because he despised himself. I feel as Byron did, and for the same reason. Do you admire the race (& consequently yourself)?

A little further along--where Greville laments that Byron can take noprofit to himself from the sinful characters he depicts so faithfully, Clemens commented:

 If Byron--if any man--draws 50 characters, they are all himself--50 shades, 50 moods, of his own character. And when the man draws them well why do they stir my admiration? Because they are me--I recognize myself. 

A volume of Plutarch was among the biographies that showed usage, and theLife of P. T. Barnum, Written by Himself. Two Years Before the Mast heloved, and never tired of. The more recent Memoirs of Andrew D. Whiteand Moncure D. Conway both, I remember, gave him enjoyment, as did theLetters of Lowell. A volume of the Letters of Madame de Sevigne had someannotated margins which were not complimentary to the translator, or forthat matter to Sevigne herself, whom he once designates as a "nauseating"person, many of whose letters had been uselessly translated, as well aspoorly arranged for reading. But he would read any volume of letters orpersonal memoirs; none were too poor that had the throb of life in them, however slight. 

Of such sort were the books that Mark Twain had loved best, and such werea few of his words concerning them. Some of them belong to his earlierreading, and among these is Darwin's 'Descent of Man', a book whoseinfluence was always present, though I believe he did not read it anymore in later years. In the days I knew him he read steadily not muchbesides Suetonius and Pepys and Carlyle. These and his simpleastronomies and geologies and the Morte Arthure and the poems of Kiplingwere seldom far from his hand. 

CCLXXXVIII

A BERMUDA BIRTHDAY

It was the middle of November, 1909, when Clemens decided to take anotherBermuda vacation, and it was the 19th that we sailed. I went to New Yorka day ahead and arranged matters, and on the evening of the 18th receivedthe news that Richard Watson Gilder had suddenly died. 

Next morning there was other news. Clemens's old friend, William M. Laffan, of the Sun, had died while undergoing a surgical operation. Imet Clemens at the train. He had already heard about Gilder; but he hadnot yet learned of Laffan's death. He said:

"That's just it. Gilder and Laffan get all the good things that comealong and I never get anything. "

Then, suddenly remembering, he added:

"How curious it is! I have been thinking of Laffan coming down on thetrain, and mentally writing a letter to him on this Stetson-Eddy affair. "

I asked when he had begun thinking of Laffan. 

He said: "Within the hour. "

It was within the hour that I had received the news, and naturally in mymind had carried it instantly to him. Perhaps there was somethingtelepathic in it. 

He was not at all ill going down to Bermuda, which was a fortunate thing, for the water was rough and I was quite disqualified. We did not evendiscuss astronomy, though there was what seemed most important news--thereported discovery of a new planet. 

But there was plenty of talk on the subject as soon as we got settled inthe Hamilton Hotel. It was windy and rainy out-of-doors, and we lookedout on the drenched semi-tropical foliage with a great bamboo swaying andbending in the foreground, while he speculated on the vast distance thatthe new planet must lie from our sun, to which it was still a satellite. The report had said that it was probably four hundred billions of milesdistant, and that on this far frontier of the solar system the sun couldnot appear to it larger than the blaze of a tallow candle. To us it waswholly incredible how, in that dim remoteness, it could still hold trueto the central force and follow at a snail-pace, yet with unvaryingexactitude, its stupendous orbit. Clemens said that heretofore Neptune, the planetary outpost of our system, had been called the tortoise of theskies, but that comparatively it was rapid in its motion, and had becomea near neighbor. He was a good deal excited at first, having somehow theimpression that this new planet traveled out beyond the nearest fixedstar; but then he remembered that the distance to that first solarneighbor was estimated in trillions, not billions, and that our littlesystem, even with its new additions, was a child's handbreadth on theplane of the sky. He had brought along a small book called The Pith ofAstronomy--a fascinating little volume--and he read from it about thegreat tempest of fire in the sun, where the waves of flame roll up twothousand miles high, though the sun itself is such a tiny star in thedeeps of the universe. 

If I dwell unwarrantably on this phase of Mark Twain's character, it isbecause it was always so fascinating to me, and the contemplation of thedrama of the skies always meant so much to him, and somehow always seemedakin to him in its proportions. He had been born under a flaming star, awanderer of the skies. He was himself, to me, always a comet rushingthrough space, from mystery to mystery, regardless of sun and systems. Itis not likely to rain long in Bermuda, and when the sun comes back itbrings summer, whatever the season. Within a day after our arrival wewere driving about those coral roads along the beaches, and by thatmarvelously variegated water. We went often to the south shore, especially to Devonshire Bay, where the reefs and the sea coloring seemmore beautiful than elsewhere. Usually, when we reached the bay, we gotout to walk along the indurated shore, stopping here and there to lookout over the jeweled water liquid turquoise, emerald lapis-lazuli, jade, the imperial garment of the Lord. 

At first we went alone with only the colored driver, Clifford Trott, whose name Clemens could not recollect, though he was always attemptingresemblances with ludicrous results. A little later Helen Allen, anearly angel-fish member already mentioned, was with us and directed thedrives, for she had been born on the island and knew every attractivelocality, though, for that matter, it would be hard to find there a placethat was not attractive. 

Clemens, in fact, remained not many days regularly at the hotel. He kepta room and his wardrobe there; but he paid a visit to Bay House--thelovely and quiet home of Helen's parents--and prolonged it from day today, and from week to week, because it was a quiet and peaceful placewith affectionate attention and limitless welcome. Clifford Trott hadorders to come with the carriage each afternoon, and we drove down to BayHouse for Mark Twain and his playmate, and then went wandering at willamong the labyrinth of blossom-bordered, perfectly kept roadways of adainty paradise, that never, I believe, becomes quite a reality even tothose who know it best. 

Clemens had an occasional paroxysm during these weeks, but they were notlikely to be severe or protracted; and I have no doubt the peace of hissurroundings, the remoteness from disturbing events, as well as the balmytemperature, all contributed to his improved condition. 

He talked pretty continuously during these drives, and he by no meansrestricted his subjects to juvenile matters. He discussed history andhis favorite sciences and philosophies, and I am sure that his drift wasrarely beyond the understanding of his young companion, for it was MarkTwain's gift to phrase his thought so that it commanded not only therespect of age, but the comprehension and the interest of youth. Iremember that once he talked, during an afternoon's drive, on the FrenchRevolution and the ridiculous episode of Anacharsis Cloots, "orator andadvocate of the human race, " collecting the vast populace of France toswear allegiance to a king even then doomed to the block. The very nameof Cloots suggested humor, and nothing could have been more delightfuland graphic than the whole episode as he related it. Helen asked if hethought such a thing as that could ever happen in America. 

"No, " he said, "the American sense of humor would have laughed it out ofcourt in a week; and the Frenchman dreads ridicule, too, though he neverseems to realize how ridiculous he is--the most ridiculous creature inthe world. "

On the morning of his seventy-fourth birthday he was looking wonderfullywell after a night of sound sleep, his face full of color and freshness, his eyes bright and keen and full of good-humor. I presented him with apair of cuff-buttons silver-enameled with the Bermuda lily, and I thoughthe seemed pleased with them. 

It was rather gloomy outside, so we remained indoors by the fire andplayed cards, game after game of hearts, at which he excelled, and he wasusually kept happy by winning. There were no visitors, and after dinnerHelen asked him to read some of her favorite episodes from Tom Sawyer, sohe read the whitewashing scene, Peter and the Pain-killer, and suchchapters until tea-time. Then there was a birthday cake, and afterwardcigars and talk and a quiet fireside evening. 

Once, in the course of his talk, he forgot a word and denounced his poormemory:

"I'll forget the Lord's middle name some time, " he declared, "right inthe midst of a storm, when I need all the help I can get. "

Later he said:

"Nobody dreamed, seventy-four years ago to-day, that I would be inBermuda now. " And I thought he meant a good deal more than the wordsconveyed. 

It was during this Bermuda visit that Mark Twain added the finishingparagraph to his article, "The Turning-Point in My Life, " which, atHowells's suggestion, he had been preparing for Harper's Bazar. It was acharacteristic touch, and, as the last summary of his philosophy of humanlife, may be repeated here. 

 Necessarily the scene of the real turning-point of my life (and of yours) was the Garden of Eden. It was there that the first link was forged of the chain that was ultimately to lead to the emptying of me into the literary guild. Adam's temperament was the first command the Deity ever issued to a human being on this planet. And it was the only command Adam would never be able to disobey. It said, "Be weak, be water, be characterless, be cheaply persuadable. " The later command, to let the fruit alone, was certain to be disobeyed. Not by Adam himself, but by his temperament--which he did not create and had no authority over. For the temperament is the man; the thing tricked out with clothes and named Man is merely its Shadow, nothing more. The law of the tiger's temperament is, Thou shaft kill; the law of the sheep's temperament is, Thou shalt not kill. To issue later commands requiring the tiger to let the fat stranger alone, and requiring the sheep to imbrue its hands in the blood of the lion is not worth while, for those commands can't be obeyed. They would invite to violations of the law of temperament, which is supreme, and takes precedence of all other authorities. I cannot help feeling disappointed in Adam and Eve. That is, in their temperaments. Not in them, poor helpless young creatures--afflicted with temperaments made out of butter, which butter was commanded to get into contact with fire and be melted. What I cannot help wishing is, that Adam and Eve had been postponed, and Martin Luther and Joan of Arc put in their place--that splendid pair equipped with temperaments not made of butter, but of asbestos. By neither sugary persuasions nor by hell-fire could Satan have beguiled them to eat the apple. 

 There would have been results! Indeed yes. The apple would be intact to-day; there would be no human race; there would be no you; there would be no me. And the old, old creation-dawn scheme of ultimately launching me into the literary guild would have been defeated. 

CCLXXXIX

THE DEATH OF JEAN

He decided to go home for the holidays, and how fortunate it seems nowthat he did so! We sailed for America on the 18th of December, arrivingthe 21st. Jean was at the wharf to meet us, blue and shivering with thecold, for it was wretchedly bleak there, and I had the feeling that sheshould not have come. 

She went directly, I think, to Stormfield, he following a day or twolater. On the 23d I was lunching with Jean alone. She was full ofinterest in her Christmas preparations. She had a handsome tree set upin the loggia, and the packages were piled about it, with new onesconstantly arriving. With her farm management, her housekeeping, hersecretary work, and her Christmas preparations, it seemed to me that shehad her hands overfull. Such a mental pressure could not be good forher. I suggested that for a time at least I might assume a part of herburden. 

I was to remain at my own home that night, and I think it was as I leftStormfield that I passed jean on the stair. She said, cheerfully, thatshe felt a little tired and was going up to lie down, so that she wouldbe fresh for the evening. I did not go back, and I never saw her aliveagain. 

I was at breakfast next morning when word was brought in that one of themen from Stormfield was outside and wished to see me immediately. When Iwent out he said: "Miss Jean is dead. They have just found her in herbath-room. Mr. Clemens sent me to bring you. "

It was as incomprehensible as such things always are. I could notrealize at all that Jean, so full of plans and industries and action lessthan a day before, had passed into that voiceless mystery which we calldeath. 

Harry Iles drove me rapidly up the hill. As I entered Clemens's room helooked at me helplessly and said:

"Well, I suppose you have heard of this final disaster. "

He was not violent or broken down with grief. He had come to that placewhere, whatever the shock or the ill-turn of fortune, he could accept it, and even in that first moment of loss he realized that, for Jean atleast, the fortune was not ill. Her malady had never been cured, and ithad been one of his deepest dreads that he would leave her behind him. Itwas believed, at first; that Jean had drowned, and Dr. Smith triedmethods of resuscitation; but then he found that it was simply a case ofheart cessation caused by the cold shock of her bath. 

The Gabrilowitsches were by this time in Europe, and Clemens cabled themnot to come. Later in the day he asked me if we would be willing toclose our home for the winter and come to Stormfield. He said that heshould probably go back to Bermuda before long; but that he wished tokeep the house open so that it would be there for him to come to at anytime that he might need it. 

We came, of course, for there was no thought among any of his friends butfor his comfort and peace of mind. Jervis Langdon was summoned fromElmira, for Jean would lie there with the others. 

In the loggia stood the half-trimmed Christmas tree, and all about laythe packages of gifts, and in Jean's room, on the chairs and upon herdesk, were piled other packages. Nobody had been forgotten. For herfather she had bought a handsome globe; he had always wanted one. Oncewhen I went into his room he said:

"I have been looking in at Jean and envying her. I have never greatlyenvied any one but the dead. I always envy the dead. "

He told me how the night before they had dined together alone; how he hadurged her to turn over a part of her work to me; how she had clung toevery duty as if now, after all the years, she was determined to make upfor lost time. 

While they were at dinner a telephone inquiry had come concerning hishealth, for the papers had reported him as returning from Bermuda in acritical condition. He had written this playful answer:

 MANAGER ASSOCIATED PRESS, New York. 

 I hear the newspapers say I am dying. The charge is not true. I would not do such a thing at my time of life. I am behaving as good as I can. 

 Merry Christmas to everybody! MARK TWAIN. 

Jean telephoned it for him to the press. It had been the last secretaryservice she had ever rendered. 

She had kissed his hand, he said, when they parted, for she had a severecold and would not wish to impart it to him; then happily she had saidgood night, and he had not seen her again. The reciting of this was goodto him, for it brought the comfort of tears. 

Later, when I went in again, he was writing:

"I am setting it down, " he said--"everything. It is a relief to me towrite it. It furnishes me an excuse for thinking. "

He continued writing most of the day, and at intervals during the nextday, and the next. 

It was on Christmas Day that they went with Jean on her last journey. Katie Leary, her baby nurse, had dressed her in the dainty gown which shehad worn for Clara's wedding, and they had pinned on it a pretty bucklewhich her father had brought her from Bermuda, and which she had notseen. No Greek statue was ever more classically beautiful than she was, lying there in the great living-room, which in its brief history had seenso much of the round of life. 

They were to start with jean at about six o'clock, and a little beforethat time Clemens (he was unable to make the journey) asked me what hadbeen her favorite music. I said that she seemed always to care most forthe Schubert Impromptu. --[Op. 142, No. 2. ]--Then he said:

"Play it when they get ready to leave with her, and add the Intermezzofor Susy and the Largo for Mrs. Clemens. When I hear the music I shallknow that they are starting. Tell them to set lanterns at the door, so Ican look down and see them go. "

So I sat at the organ and began playing as they lifted and bore her away. A soft, heavy snow was falling, and the gloom of those shortest days wasclosing in. There was not the least wind or noise, the whole world wasmuffled. The lanterns at the door threw their light out on the thicklyfalling flakes. I remained at the organ; but the little group at thedoor saw him come to the window above--the light on his white hair as hestood mournfully gazing down, watching Jean going away from him for thelast time. I played steadily on as he had instructed, the Impromptu, theIntermezzo from "Cavalleria, " and Handel's Largo. When I had finished Iwent up and found him. 

"Poor little Jean, " he said; "but for her it is so good to go. "

In his own story of it he wrote:

 From my windows I saw the hearse and the carriages wind along the road and gradually grow vague and spectral in the falling snow, and presently disappear. Jean was gone out of my life, and would not come back any more. The cousin she had played with when they were babies together--he and her beloved old Katie--Were conducting her to her distant childhood home, where she will lie by her mother's side once more, in the company of Susy and Langdon. 

He did not come down to dinner, and when I went up afterward I found himcuriously agitated. He said:

"For one who does not believe in spirits I have had a most peculiarexperience. I went into the bath-room just now and closed the door. Youknow how warm it always is in there, and there are no draughts. All atonce I felt a cold current of air about me. I thought the door must beopen; but it was closed. I said, 'Jean, is this you trying to let meknow you have found the others?' Then the cold air was gone. "

I saw that the incident had made a very great impression upon him; but Idon't remember that he ever mentioned it afterward. 

Next day the storm had turned into a fearful blizzard; the whole hilltopwas a raging, driving mass of white. He wrote most of the day, butstopped now and then to read some of the telegrams or letters ofcondolence which came flooding in. Sometimes he walked over to thewindow to look out on the furious tempest. Once, during the afternoon, he said:

"Jean always so loved to see a storm like this, and just now at Elmirathey are burying her. "

Later he read aloud some lines by Alfred Austin, which Mrs. Crane hadsent him lines which he had remembered in the sorrow for Susy:

 When last came sorrow, around barn and byre Wind-careen snow, the year's white sepulchre, lay. "Come in, " I said, "and warm you by the fire"; And there she sits and never goes away. 

It was that evening that he came into the room where Mrs. Paine and I satby the fire, bringing his manuscript. 

"I have finished my story of Jean's death, " he said. "It is the end ofmy autobiography. I shall never write any more. I can't judge it myselfat all. One of you read it aloud to the other, and let me know what youthink of it. If it is worthy, perhaps some day it may be published. "

It was, in fact, one of the most exquisite and tender pieces of writingin the language. He had ended his literary labors with that perfectthing which so marvelously speaks the loftiness and tenderness of hissoul. It was thoroughly in keeping with his entire career that heshould, with this rare dramatic touch, bring it to a close. A paragraphwhich he omitted may be printed now:

 December 27. Did I know jean's value? No, I only thought I did. I knew a ten-thousandth fraction of it, that was all. It is always so, with us, it has always been so. We are like the poor ignorant private soldier-dead, now, four hundred years--who picked up the great Sancy diamond on the field of the lost battle and sold it for a franc. Later he knew what he had done. 

 Shall I ever be cheerful again, happy again? Yes. And soon. For I know my temperament. And I know that the temperament is master of the man, and that he is its fettered and helpless slave and must in all things do as it commands. A man's temperament is born in him, and no circumstances can ever change it. 

 My temperament has never allowed my spirits to remain depressed long at a time. 

 That was a feature of Jean's temperament, too. She inherited it from me. I think she got the rest of it from her mother. 

Jean Clemens had two natural endowments: the gift of justice and agenuine passion for all nature. In a little paper found in her desk shehad written:

 I know a few people who love the country as I do, but not many. Most of my acquaintances are enthusiastic over the spring and summer months, but very few care much for it the year round. A few people are interested in the spring foliage and the development of the wild flowers--nearly all enjoy the autumn colors--while comparatively few pay much attention to the coming and going of the birds, the changes in their plumage and songs, the apparent springing into life on some warm April day of the chipmunks and woodchucks, the skurrying of baby rabbits, and again in the fall the equally sudden disappearance of some of the animals and the growing shyness of others. To me it is all as fascinating as a book--more so, since I have never lost interest in it. 

It is simple and frank, like Thoreau. Perhaps, had she exercised it, there was a third gift--the gift of written thought. 

Clemens remained at Stormfield ten days after Jean was gone. The weatherwas fiercely cold, the landscape desolate, the house full of tragedy. Hekept pretty closely to his room, where he had me bring the heaps ofletters, a few of which he answered personally; for the others heprepared a simple card of acknowledgment. He was for the most part ingentle mood during these days, though he would break out now and then, and rage at the hardness of a fate that had laid an unearned burden ofillness on Jean and shadowed her life. 

They were days not wholly without humor--none of his days could bealtogether without that, though it was likely to be of a melancholy sort. 

Many of the letters offered orthodox comfort, saying, in effect: "Goddoes not willingly punish us. "

When he had read a number of these he said:

"Well, why does He do it then? We don't invite it. Why does He giveHimself the trouble?"

I suggested that it was a sentiment that probably gave comfort to thewriter of it. 

"So it does, " he said, "and I am glad of it--glad of anything that givescomfort to anybody. "

He spoke of the larger God--the God of the great unvarying laws, and byand by dropped off to sleep, quite peacefully, and indeed peace came moreand more to him each day with the thought that Jean and Susy and theirmother could not be troubled any more. To Mrs. Gabrilowitsch he wrote:

 REDDING, CONN, December 29, 1909. 

 O, Clara, Clara dear, I am so glad she is out of it & safe--safe!

 I am not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think. 

 You see, I was in such distress when I came to realize that you were gone far away & no one stood between her & danger but me--& I could die at any moment, & then--oh then what would become of her! For she was wilful, you know, & would not have been governable. 

 You can't imagine what a darling she was that last two or three days; & how fine, & good, & sweet, & noble--& joyful, thank Heaven! --& how intellectually brilliant. I had never been acquainted with Jean before. I recognized that. 

 But I mustn't try to write about her--I can't. I have already poured my heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two. I will send you that--& you must let no one but Ossip read it. 

 Good-by. I love you so! And Ossip. FATHER. 

CCXC

THE RETURN TO BERMUDA

I don't think he attempted any further writing for print. His mind wasbusy with ideas, but he was willing to talk, rather than to write, rathereven than to play billiards, it seemed, although we had a few quietgames--the last we should ever play together. Evenings he asked formusic, preferring the Scotch airs, such as "Bonnie Doon" and "TheCampbells are Coming. " I remember that once, after playing the latterfor him, he told, with great feeling, how the Highlanders, led by Gen. Colin Campbell, had charged at Lucknow, inspired by that stirring air. When he had retired I usually sat with him, and he drifted intoliterature, or theology, or science, or history--the story of theuniverse and man. 

One evening he spoke of those who had written but one immortal thing andstopped there. He mentioned "Ben Bolt. "

"I met that man once, " he said. "In my childhood I sang 'Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, ' and in my old age, fifteen years ago, I met the man who wroteit. His name was Brown. --[Thomas Dunn English. Mr. Clemens apparentlyremembered only the name satirically conferred upon him by Edgar AllanPoe, "Thomas Dunn Brown. "]--He was aged, forgotten, a mere memory. Iremember how it thrilled me to realize that this was the very author of'Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt. ' He was just an accident. He had a vision andechoed it. A good many persons do that--the thing they do is to put incompact form the thing which we have all vaguely felt. 'Twenty YearsAgo' is just like it 'I have wandered through the village, Tom, and satbeneath the tree'--and Holmes's 'Last Leaf' is another: the memory of thehallowed past, and the gravestones of those we love. It is all sobeautiful--the past is always beautiful. "

He quoted, with great feeling and effect:

 The massy marbles rest On the lips that we have pressed In their bloom, And the names we love to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. 

He continued in this strain for an hour or more. He spoke of humor, andthought it must be one of the chief attributes of God. He cited plantsand animals that were distinctly humorous in form and in theircharacteristics. These he declared were God's jokes. 

"Why, " he said, "humor is mankind's greatest blessing. "

"Your own case is an example, " I answered. "Without it, whatever yourreputation as a philosopher, you could never have had the wide-spreadaffection that is shown by the writers of that great heap of letters. "

"Yes, " he said, gently, "they have liked to be amused. "

I tucked him in for the night, promising to send him to Bermuda, withClaude to take care of him, if he felt he could undertake the journey intwo days more. 

He was able, and he was eager to go, for he longed for that sunny island, and for the quiet peace of the Allen home. His niece, Mrs. Loomis, cameup to spend the last evening in Stormfield, a happy evening full of quiettalk, and next morning, in the old closed carriage that had been hiswedding-gift, he was driven to the railway station. This was on January4, 1910. 

He was to sail next day, and that night, at Mr. Loomis's, Howells camein, and for an hour or two they reviewed some of the questions they hadso long ago settled, or left forever unsettled, and laid away. Iremember that at dinner Clemens spoke of his old Hartford butler, George, and how he had once brought George to New York and introduced him at thevarious publishing houses as his friend, with curious and sometimesrather embarrassing results. 

The talk drifted to sociology and to the labor-unions, which Clemensdefended as being the only means by which the workman could obtainrecognition of his rights. 

Howells in his book mentions this evening, which he says "was madememorable to me by the kind, clear, judicial sense with which heexplained and justified the labor-unions as the sole present help of theweak against the strong. "

They discussed dreams, and then in a little while Howells rose to go. Iwent also, and as we walked to his near-by apartment he spoke of MarkTwain's supremacy. He said:

"I turn to his books for cheer when I am down-hearted. There was neveranybody like him; there never will be. "

Clemens sailed next morning. They did not meet again. 

CCXCI

LETTERS FROM BERMUDA

Stormfield was solemn and empty without Mark Twain; but he wrote by everysteamer, at first with his own hand, and during the last week by the handof one of his enlisted secretaries--some member of the Allen familyusually Helen. His letters were full of brightness and pleasantry--always concerned more or less with business matters, though he was nolonger disturbed by them, for Bermuda was too peaceful and too far away, and, besides, he had faith in the Mark Twain Company's ability to lookafter his affairs. I cannot do better, I believe, than to offer someportions of these letters here. 

He reached Bermuda on the 7th of January, 1910, and on the 12th he wrote:

 Again I am living the ideal life. There is nothing to mar it but the bloody-minded bandit Arthur, --[A small playmate of Helen's of whom Clemens pretended to be fiercely jealous. Once he wrote a memorandum to Helen: "Let Arthur read this book. There is a page in it that is poisoned. "]--who still fetches and carries Helen. Presently he will be found drowned. Claude comes to Bay House twice a day to see if I need any service. He is invaluable. There was a military lecture last night at the Officers' Mess Prospect; as the lecturer honored me with a special urgent invitation, and said he wanted to lecture to me particularly, I naturally took Helen and her mother into the private carriage and went. 

 As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to me& was very cordial. I "met up" with that charming Colonel Chapman [we had known him on the previous visit] and other officers of the regiment & had a good time. 

A few days later he wrote:

 Thanks for your letter & for its contenting news of the situation in that foreign & far-off & vaguely remembered country where you & Loomis & Lark and other beloved friends are. 

 I had a letter from Clara this morning. She is solicitous & wants me well & watchfully taken care of. My, my, she ought to see Helen & her parents & Claude administer that trust. Also she says, "I hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon. "

 I am writing her & I know you will respond to your part of her prayer. She is pretty desolate now after Jean's emancipation--the only kindness that God ever did that poor, unoffending child in all her hard life. 

 Send Clara a copy of Howells's gorgeous letter. 

The "gorgeous letter" mentioned was an appreciation of his recent Bazararticle, "The Turning-Point in My Life, " and here follows:

 January 18, 1910. 

 DEAR CLEMENS, --While your wonderful words are warm in my mind yet I want to tell you what you know already: that you never wrote anything greater, finer, than that turning-point paper of yours. 

 I shall feel it honor enough if they put on my tombstone "He was born in the same century and general section of Middle Western country with Dr. S. L. Clemens, Oxon. , and had his degree three years before him through a mistake of the University. "

 I hope you are worse. You will never be riper for a purely intellectual life, and it is a pity to have you lagging along with a worn-out material body on top of your soul. 

 Yours ever, W. D. HOWELLS. 

On the margin of this letter Clemens had written:

 I reckon this spontaneous outburst from the first critic of the day is good to keep, ain't it, Paine?

January 24th he wrote again of his contentment:

 Life continues here the same as usual. There isn't a fault in it --good times, good home, tranquil contentment all day & every day without a break. I know familiarly several very satisfactory people & meet them frequently: Mr. Hamilton, the Sloanes, Mr. & Mrs. Fells, Miss Waterman, & so on. I shouldn't know how to go about bettering my situation. 

On February 5th he wrote that the climate and condition of his healthmight require him to stay in Bermuda pretty continuously, but that hewished Stormfield kept open so that he might come to it at any time. Andhe added:

 Yesterday Mr. Allen took us on an excursion in Mr. Hamilton's big motor-boat. Present: Mrs. Allen, Mr. & Mrs. & Miss Sloane, Helen, Mildred Howells, Claude, & me. Several hours' swift skimming over ravishing blue seas, a brilliant sun; also a couple of hours of picnicking & lazying under the cedars in a secluded place. 

 The Orotava is arriving with 260 passengers--I shall get letters by her, no doubt. 

 P. S. --Please send me the Standard Unabridged that is on the table in my bedroom. I have no dictionary here. 

There is no mention in any of these letters of his trouble; but he washaving occasional spasms of pain, though in that soft climate they wouldseem to have come with less frequency, and there was so little to disturbhim, and much that contributed to his peace. Among the callers at theBay House to see him was Woodrow Wilson, and the two put in some pleasanthours at miniature golf, "putting" on the Allen lawn. Of course acatastrophe would come along now and then--such things could not alwaysbe guarded against. In a letter toward the end of February he wrote: It is 2. 30 in the morning & I am writing because I can't sleep. I can't sleep because a professional pianist is coming to-morrow afternoon to play for me. My God! I wouldn't allow Paderewski or Gabrilowitsch to do that. I would rather have a leg amputated. I knew he was coming, but I never dreamed it was to play for me. When I heard the horrible news 4 hours ago, be d---d if I didn't come near screaming. I meant to slip out and be absent, but now I can't. Don't pray for me. The thing is just as d---d bad as it can be already. 

Clemens's love for music did not include the piano, except for verygentle melodies, and he probably did not anticipate these from aprofessional player. He did not report the sequel of the matter; but itis likely that his imagination had discounted its tortures. Sometimeshis letters were pure nonsense. Once he sent a sheet, on one side ofwhich was written:

 BAY HOUSE, March s, 1910. Received of S. L. C. Two Dollars and Forty Cents in return for my promise to believe everything he says hereafter. HELEN S. ALLEN. 

and on the reverse:

 FOR SALE

 The proprietor of the hereinbefore mentioned Promise desires to part with it on account of ill health and obliged to go away somewheres so as to let it recipricate, and will take any reasonable amount for it above 2 percent of its face because experienced parties think it will not keep but only a little while in this kind of weather & is a kind of proppity that don't give a cuss for cold storage nohow. 

Clearly, however serious Mark Twain regarded his physical condition, hedid not allow it to make him gloomy. He wrote that matters were goingeverywhere to his satisfaction; that Clara was happy; that his householdand business affairs no longer troubled him; that his personalsurroundings were of the pleasantest sort. Sometimes he wrote of what hewas reading, and once spoke particularly of Prof. William Lyon Phelps'sLiterary Essays, which he said he had been unable to lay down until hehad finished the book. --[To Phelps himself he wrote: "I thank you ever somuch for the book, which I find charming--so charming, indeed, that Iread it through in a single night, & did not regret the lost night'ssleep. I am glad if I deserve what you have said about me; & even if Idon't I am proud & well contented, since you think I deserve it. "]

So his days seemed full of comfort. But in March I noticed that hegenerally dictated his letters, and once when he sent some smallphotographs I thought he looked thinner and older. Still he kept up hismerriment. In one letter he said:

 While the matter is in my mind I will remark that if you ever send me another letter which is not paged at the top I will write you with my own hand, so that I may use with utter freedom & without embarrassment the kind of words which alone can describe such a criminal, to wit, - - - -; you will have to put into words those dashes because propriety will not allow me to do it myself in my secretary's hearing. You are forgiven, but don't let it occur again. 

He had still made no mention of his illness; but on the 25th of March hewrote something of his plans for coming home. He had engaged passage onthe Bermudian for April 23d, he said; and he added:

 But don't tell anybody. I don't want it known. I may have to go sooner if the pain in my breast does not mend its ways pretty considerable. I don't want to die here, for this is an unkind place for a person in that condition. I should have to lie in the undertaker's cellar until the ship would remove me & it is dark down there & unpleasant. 

 The Colliers will meet me on the pier, & I may stay with them a week or two before going home. It all depends on the breast pain. I don't want to die there. I am growing more and more particular about the place. 

But in the same letter he spoke of plans for the summer, suggesting thatwe must look into the magic-lantern possibilities, so that libraryentertainments could be given at Stormfield. I confess that this letter, in spite of its light tone, made me uneasy, and I was tempted to sail forBermuda to bring him home. Three days later he wrote again:

 I have been having a most uncomfortable time for the past four days with that breast pain, which turns out to be an affection of the heart, just as I originally suspected. The news from New York is to the effect that non-bronchial weather has arrived there at last; therefore, if I can get my breast trouble in traveling condition I may sail for home a week or two earlier than has been proposed. 

The same mail that brought this brought a letter from Mr. Allen, whofrankly stated that matters had become very serious indeed. Mr. Clemenshad had some dangerous attacks, and the physicians considered hiscondition critical. 

These letters arrived April 1st. I went to New York at once and sailednext morning. Before sailing I consulted with Dr. Quintard, who providedme with some opiates and instructed me in the use of the hypodermicneedle. He also joined me in a cablegram to the Gabrilowitsches, then inItaly, advising them to sail without delay. 

CCXCII

THE VOYAGE HOME

I sent no word to Bermuda that I was coming, and when on the secondmorning I arrived at Hamilton, I stepped quickly ashore from the tenderand hurried to Bay House. The doors were all open, as they usually arein that summer island, and no one was visible. I was familiar with theplace, and, without knocking, I went through to the room occupied by MarkTwain. As I entered I saw that he was alone, sitting in a large chair, clad in the familiar dressing-gown. 

Bay House stands upon the water, and the morning light, reflected in atthe window, had an unusual quality. He was not yet shaven, and he seemedunnaturally pale and gray; certainly he was much thinner. I was toostartled, for the moment, to say anything. When he turned and saw me heseemed a little dazed. 

"Why, " he said, holding out his hand, "you didn't tell us you werecoming. "

"No, " I said, "it is rather sudden. I didn't quite like the sound ofyour last letters. "

"But those were not serious, " he protested. "You shouldn't have come onmy account. "

I said then that I had come on my own account; that I had felt the needof recreation, and had decided to run down and come home with him. 

"That's--very--good, " he said, in his slow, gentle fashion. "Now I'mglad to see you. "

His breakfast came in and he ate with an appetite. 

When he had been shaved and freshly propped tip in his pillows it seemedto me, after all, that I must have been mistaken in thinking him sochanged. Certainly he was thinner, but his color was fine, his eyes werebright; he had no appearance of a man whose life was believed to be indanger. He told me then of the fierce attacks he had gone through, howthe pains had torn at him, and how it had been necessary for him to havehypodermic injections, which he amusingly termed "hypnotic injunctions"and "subcutaneous applications, " and he had his humor out of it, as ofcourse he must have, even though Death should stand there in person. 

From Mr. And Mrs. Allen and from the physician I learned how slender hadbeen his chances and how uncertain were the days ahead. Mr. Allen hadalready engaged passage on the Oceana for the 12th, and the one purposenow was to get him physically in condition for the trip. 

How devoted those kind friends had been to him! They had devised everyimaginable thing for his comfort. Mr. Allen had rigged an electric bellwhich connected with his own room, so that he could be aroused instantlyat any hour of the night. Clemens had refused to have a nurse, for itwas only during the period of his extreme suffering that he needed anyone, and he did not wish to have a nurse always around. When the painswere gone he was as bright and cheerful, and, seemingly, as well as ever. 

On the afternoon of my arrival we drove out, as formerly, and hediscussed some of the old subjects in quite the old way. He had beenrereading Macaulay, he said, and spoke at considerable length of thehypocrisy and intrigue of the English court under James II. He spoke, too, of the Redding Library. I had sold for him that portion of the landwhere Jean's farm-house had stood, and it was in his mind to use themoney for some sort of a memorial to Jean. I had written, suggestingthat perhaps he would like to put up a small library building, as theAdams lot faced the corner where Jean had passed every day when she rodeto the station for the mail. He had been thinking this over, he said, and wished the idea carried out. He asked me to write at once to hislawyer, Mr. Lark, and have a paper prepared appointing trustees for amemorial library fund. 

The pain did not trouble him that afternoon, nor during severalsucceeding days. He was gay and quite himself, and he often went out onthe lawn; but we did not drive out again. For the most part, he satpropped up in his bed, reading or smoking, or talking in the old way; andas I looked at him he seemed so full of vigor and the joy of life that Icould not convince myself that he would not outlive us all. I found thathe had been really very much alive during those three months--too muchfor his own good, sometimes--for he had not been careful of his hours orhis diet, and had suffered in consequence. 

He had not been writing, though he had scribbled some playful valentinesand he had amused himself one day by preparing a chapter of advice--forme it appeared--which, after reading it aloud to the Allens and receivingtheir approval, he declared he intended to have printed for my benefit. As it would seem to have been the last bit of continued writing he everdid, and because it is characteristic and amusing, a few paragraphs maybe admitted. The "advice" is concerning deportment on reaching the Gatewhich St. Peter is supposed to guard--

 Upon arrival do not speak to St. Peter until spoken to. It is not your place to begin. 

 Do not begin any remark with "Say. "

 When applying for a ticket avoid trying to make conversation. If you must talk let the weather alone. St. Peter cares not a damn for the weather. And don't ask him what time the 4. 30 train goes; there aren't any trains in heaven, except through trains, and the less information you get about them the better for you. 

 You can ask him for his autograph--there is no harm in that--but be careful and don't remark that it is one of the penalties of greatness. He has heard that before. 

 Don't try to kodak him. Hell is full of people who have made that mistake. 

 Leave your dog outside. Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit you would stay out and the dog would go in. 

 You will be wanting to slip down at night and smuggle water to those poor little chaps (the infant damned), but don't you try it. You would be caught, and nobody in heaven would respect you after that. 

 Explain to Helen why I don't come. If you can. 

There were several pages of this counsel. One paragraph was written inshorthand. I meant to ask him to translate it; but there were many otherthings to think of, and I did not remember. 

I spent most of each day with him, merely sitting by the bed and readingwhile he himself read or dozed. His nights were wakeful--he found iteasier to sleep by day--and he liked to think that some one was there. Hebecame interested in Hardy's Jude, and spoke of it with high approval, urging me to read it. He dwelt a good deal on the morals of it, orrather on the lack of them. He followed the tale to the end, finishingit the afternoon before we sailed. It was his last continuous reading. Inoticed, when he slept, that his breathing was difficult, and I could seefrom day to day that he did not improve; but each evening he would be gayand lively, and he liked the entire family to gather around, while hebecame really hilarious over the various happenings of the day. It wasonly a few days before we sailed that the very severe attacks returned. The night of the 8th was a hard one. The doctors were summoned, and itwas only after repeated injections of morphine that the pain had beeneased. When I returned in the early morning he was sitting in his chairtrying to sing, after his old morning habit. He took my hand and said:

"Well, I had a picturesque night. Every pain I had was on exhibition. "

He looked out the window at the sunlight on the bay and green dottedislands. "'Sparkling and bright in the liquid light, '" he quoted. "That's Hoffman. Anything left of Hoffman?"

"No, " I said. 

"I must watch for the Bermudian and see if she salutes, " he said, presently. "The captain knows I am here sick, and he blows two shortwhistles just as they come up behind that little island. Those are forme. "

He said he could breathe easier if he could lean forward, and I placed acard-table in front of him. His breakfast came in, and a little later hebecame quite gay. He drifted to Macaulay again, and spoke of KingJames's plot to assassinate William II. , and how the clergy had broughtthemselves to see that there was no difference between killing a king inbattle and by assassination. He had taken his seat by the window towatch for the Bermudian. She came down the bay presently, her bright redstacks towering vividly above the green island. It was a brilliantmorning, the sky and the water a marvelous blue. He watched heranxiously and without speaking. Suddenly there were two white puffs ofsteam, and two short, hoarse notes went up from her. 

"Those are for me, " he said, his face full of contentment. "CaptainFraser does not forget me. "

There followed another bad night. My room was only a little distanceaway, and Claude came for me. I do not think any of us thought he wouldsurvive it; but he slept at last, or at least dozed. In the morning hesaid:

"That breast pain stands watch all night and the short breath all day. Iam losing enough sleep to supply a worn-out army. I want a jugful ofthat hypnotic injunction every night and every morning. "

We began to fear now that he would not be able to sail on the 12th; butby great good-fortune he had wonderfully improved by the 12th, so much sothat I began to believe, if once he could be in Stormfield, where the airwas more vigorous, he might easily survive the summer. The humidatmosphere of the season increased the difficulty of his breathing. 

That evening he was unusually merry. Mr. And Mrs. Allen and Helen andmyself went in to wish him good night. He was loath to let us leave, butwas reminded that he would sail in the morning, and that the doctor hadinsisted that he must be quiet and lie still in bed and rest. He wasnever one to be very obedient. A little later Mrs. Allen and I, in thesitting-room, heard some one walking softly outside on the veranda. Wewent out there, and he was marching up and down in his dressing-gown asunconcerned as if he were not an invalid at all. He hadn't felt sleepy, he said, and thought a little exercise would do him good. Perhaps itdid, for he slept soundly that night--a great blessing. 

Mr. Allen had chartered a special tug to come to Bay House landing in themorning and take him to the ship. He was carried in a little hand-chairto the tug, and all the way out he seemed light-spirited, anything but aninvalid: The sailors carried him again in the chair to his state-room, and he bade those dear Bermuda friends good-by, and we sailed away. 

As long as I remember anything I shall remember the forty-eight hours ofthat homeward voyage. It was a brief two days as time is measured; butas time is lived it has taken its place among those unmeasured periods bythe side of which even years do not count. 

At first he seemed quite his natural self, and asked for a catalogue ofthe ship's library, and selected some memoirs of the Countess of Cardiganfor his reading. He asked also for the second volume of Carlyle's FrenchRevolution, which he had with him. But we ran immediately into the morehumid, more oppressive air of the Gulf Stream, and his breathing becameat first difficult, then next to impossible. There were two largeport-holes, which I opened; but presently he suggested that it would bebetter outside. It was only a step to the main-deck, and no passengerswere there. I had a steamer-chair brought, and with Claude supported himto it and bundled him with rugs; but it had grown damp and chilly, andhis breathing did not improve. It seemed to me that the end might comeat any moment, and this thought was in his mind, too, for once in theeffort for breath he managed to say:

"I am going--I shall be gone in a moment. "

Breath came; but I realized then that even his cabin was better thanthis. I steadied him back to his berth and shut out most of that deadlydampness. He asked for the "hypnotic 'injunction" (for his humor neverleft him), and though it was not yet the hour prescribed I could not denyit. It was impossible for him to lie down, even to recline, withoutgreat distress. The opiate made him drowsy, and he longed for the reliefof sleep; but when it seemed about to possess him the struggle for airwould bring him upright. 

During the more comfortable moments he spoke quite in the old way, andtime and again made an effort to read, and reached for his pipe or acigar which lay in the little berth hammock at his side. I held thematch, and he would take a puff or two with satisfaction. Then the peaceof it would bring drowsiness, and while I supported him there would comea few moments, perhaps, of precious sleep. Only a few moments, for thedevil of suffocation was always lying in wait to bring him back for freshtortures. Over and over again this was repeated, varied by him beingsteadied on his feet or sitting on the couch opposite the berth. Inspite of his suffering, two dominant characteristics remained--the senseof humor, and tender consideration for another. 

Once when the ship rolled and his hat fell from the hook, and made thecircuit of the cabin floor, he said:

"The ship is passing the hat. "

Again he said:

"I am sorry for you, Paine, but I can't help it--I can't hurry this dyingbusiness. Can't you give me enough of the hypnotic injunction to put anend to me?"

He thought if I could arrange the pillows so he could sit straight up itwould not be necessary to support him, and then I could sit on the couchand read while he tried to doze. He wanted me to read Jude, he said, sowe could talk about it. I got all the pillows I could and built them uparound him, and sat down with the book, and this seemed to give himcontentment. He would doze off a little and then come up with a start, his piercing, agate eyes searching me out to see if I was still there. Over and over--twenty times in an hour--this was repeated. When I coulddeny him no longer I administered the opiate, but it never completelypossessed him or gave him entire relief. 

As I looked at him there, so reduced in his estate, I could not butremember all the labor of his years, and all the splendid honor which theworld had paid to him. Something of this may have entered his mind, too, for once, when I offered him some of the milder remedies which we hadbrought, he said:

"After forty years of public effort I have become just a target formedicines. "

The program of change from berth to the floor, from floor to the couch, from the couch back to the berth among the pillows, was repeated againand again, he always thinking of the trouble he might be making, rarelyuttering any complaint; but once he said:

"I never guessed that I was not going to outlive John Bigelow. " Andagain:

"This is such a mysterious disease. If we only had a bill of particularswe'd have something to swear at. "

Time and again he picked up Carlyle or the Cardigan Memoirs, and read, orseemed to read, a few lines; but then the drowsiness would come and thebook would fall. Time and again he attempted to smoke, or in his drowsesimulated the motion of placing a cigar to his lips and puffing in theold way. 

Two dreams beset him in his momentary slumber--one of a play in which thetitle-role of the general manager was always unfilled. He spoke of thisnow and then when it had passed, and it seemed to amuse him. The otherwas a discomfort: a college assembly was attempting to confer upon himsome degree which he did not want. Once, half roused, he looked at mesearchingly and asked:

"Isn't there something I can resign and be out of all this? They keeptrying to confer that degree upon me and I don't want it. " Thenrealizing, he said: "I am like a bird in a cage: always expecting to getout, and always beaten back by the wires. " And, somewhat later: "Oh, itis such a mystery, and it takes so long. "

Toward the evening of the first day, when it grew dark outside, he asked:

"How long have we been on this voyage?"

I answered that this was the end of the first day. 

"How many more are there?" he asked. 

"Only one, and two nights. "

"We'll never make it, " he said. "It's an eternity. "

"But we must on Clara's account, " I told him, and I estimated that Clarawould be more than half-way across the ocean by now. 

"It is a losing race, " he said; "no ship can outsail death. "

It has been written--I do not know with what proof--that certain greatdissenters have recanted with the approach of death--have become weak, and afraid to ignore old traditions in the face of the great mystery. Iwish to write here that Mark Twain, as he neared the end, showed never asingle tremor of fear or even of reluctance. I have dwelt upon thesehours when suffering was upon him, and death the imminent shadow, inorder to show that at the end he was as he had always been, neither morenor less, and never less than brave. 

Once, during a moment when he was comfortable and quite himself, he said, earnestly:

"When I seem to be dying I don't want to be stimulated back to life. Iwant to be made comfortable to go. "

There was not a vestige of hesitation; there was no grasping at straws, no suggestion of dread. 

Somehow those two days and nights went by. Once, when he was partiallyrelieved by the opiate, I slept, while Claude watched; and again, in thefading end of the last night, when we had passed at length into the cold, bracing northern air, and breath had come back to him, and with it sleep. 

Relatives, physicians, and news-gatherers were at the dock to welcomehim. He was awake, and the northern air had brightened him, though itwas the chill, I suppose, that brought on the pains in his breast, which, fortunately, he had escaped during the voyage. It was not a prolongedattack, and it was, blessedly, the last one. 

An invalid-carriage had been provided, and a compartment secured on theafternoon express to Redding--the same train that had taken him there twoyears before. Dr. Robert H. Halsey and Dr. Edward Quintard attended him, and he made the journey really in cheerful comfort, for he could breathenow, and in the relief came back old interests. Half reclining on thecouch, he looked through the afternoon papers. It happened curiouslythat Charles Harvey Genung, who, something more than four years earlier, had been so largely responsible for my association with Mark Twain, wason the same train, in the same coach, bound for his country-place at NewHartford. 

Lounsbury was waiting with the carriage, and on that still, sweet Aprilevening we drove him to Stormfield much as we had driven him two yearsbefore. Now and then he mentioned the apparent backwardness of theseason, for only a few of the trees were beginning to show their green. As we drove into the lane that led to the Stormfield entrance, he said:

"Can we see where you have built your billiard-room?"

The gable showed above the trees, and I pointed it out to him. 

"It looks quite imposing, " he said. 

I think it was the last outside interest he ever showed in anything. Hehad been carried from the ship and from the train, but when we drew up toStormfield, where Mrs. Paine, with Katie Leary and others of thehousehold, was waiting to greet him, he stepped from the carriage alonewith something of his old lightness, and with all his old courtliness, and offered each one his hand. Then, in the canvas chair which we hadbrought, Claude and I carried him up-stairs to his room and delivered himto the physicians, and to the comforts and blessed air of home. This wasThursday evening, April 14, 1910. 

CCXCIII

THE RETURN TO THE INVISIBLE

There would be two days more before Ossip and Clara Gabrilowitsch couldarrive. Clemens remained fairly bright and comfortable during thisinterval, though he clearly was not improving. The physicians denied himthe morphine, now, as he no longer suffered acutely. But he craved it, and once, when I went in, he said, rather mournfully:

"They won't give me the subcutaneous any more. "

It was Sunday morning when Clara came. He was cheerful and able to talkquite freely. He did not dwell upon his condition, I think, but spokerather of his plans for the summer. At all events, he did not thensuggest that he counted the end so near; but a day later it becameevident to all that his stay was very brief. His breathing was becomingheavier, though it seemed not to give him much discomfort. Hisarticulation also became affected. I think the last continuous talkinghe did was to Dr. Halsey on the evening of April 17th--the day of Clara'sarrival. A mild opiate had been administered, and he said he wished totalk himself to sleep. He recalled one of his old subjects, DualPersonality, and discussed various instances that flitted through hismind--Jekyll and Hyde phases in literature and fact. He became drowsieras he talked. He said at last:

"This is a peculiar kind of disease. It does not invite you to read; itdoes not invite you to be read to; it does not invite you to talk, nor toenjoy any of the usual sick-room methods of treatment. What kind of adisease is that? Some kinds of sicknesses have pleasant features aboutthem. You can read and smoke and have only to lie still. "

And a little later he added:

"It is singular, very singular, the laws of mentality--vacuity. I putout my hand to reach a book or newspaper which I have been reading mostglibly, and it isn't there, not a suggestion of it. "

He coughed violently, and afterward commented:

"If one gets to meddling with a cough it very soon gets the upper handand is meddling with you. That is my opinion--of seventy-four years'growth. "

The news of his condition, everywhere published, brought great heaps ofletters, but he could not see them. A few messages were reported to him. At intervals he read a little. Suetonius and Carlyle lay on the bedbeside him, and he would pick them up as the spirit moved him and read aparagraph or a page. Sometimes, when I saw him thus-the high color stillin his face, and the clear light in his eyes--I said: "It is not reality. He is not going to die. " On Tuesday, the 19th, he asked me to tell Clarato come and sing to him. It was a heavy requirement, but she somehowfound strength to sing some of the Scotch airs which he loved, and heseemed soothed and comforted. When she came away he bade her good-by, saying that he might not see her again. 

But he lingered through the next day and the next. His mind waswandering a little on Wednesday, and his speech became less and lessarticulate; but there were intervals when he was quite clear, quitevigorous, and he apparently suffered little. We did not know it, then, but the mysterious messenger of his birth-year, so long anticipated byhim, appeared that night in the sky. --[The perihelion of Halley's Cometfor 1835 was November 16th; for 1910 it was April 20th. ]

On Thursday morning, the 21st, his mind was generally clear, and it wassaid by the nurses that he read a little from one of the volumes on hisbed, from the Suetonius, or from one of the volumes of Carlyle. Early inthe forenoon he sent word by Clara that he wished to see me, and when Icame in he spoke of two unfinished manuscripts which he wished me to"throw away, " as he briefly expressed it, for he had not many words leftnow. I assured him that I would take care of them, and he pressed myhand. It was his last word to me. 

Once or twice that morning he tried to write some request which he couldnot put into intelligible words. 

And once he spoke to Gabrilowitsch, who, he said, could understand himbetter than the others. Most of the time he dozed. 

Somewhat after midday, when Clara was by him, he roused up and took herhand, and seemed to speak with less effort. 

"Good-by, " he said, and Dr. Quintard, who was standing near, thought headded: "If we meet"--but the words were very faint. He looked at her fora little while, without speaking, then he sank into a doze, and from itpassed into a deeper slumber, and did not heed us any more. 

Through that peaceful spring afternoon the life-wave ebbed lower andlower. It was about half past six, and the sun lay just on the horizonwhen Dr. Quintard noticed that the breathing, which had gradually becomemore subdued, broke a little. There was no suggestion of any struggle. The noble head turned a little to one side, there was a fluttering sigh, and the breath that had been unceasing through seventy-four tumultuousyears had stopped forever. 

He had entered into the estate envied so long. In his own words--thewords of one of his latest memoranda:

"He had arrived at the dignity of death--the only earthly dignity that isnot artificial--the only safe one. The others are traps that can beguileto humiliation. 

"Death--the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whosepeace and whose refuge are for all--the soiled and the pure--the rich andthe poor--the loved and the unloved. "

CCXCIV

THE LAST RITES

It is not often that a whole world mourns. Nations have often mourned ahero--and races--but perhaps never before had the entire world reallyunited in tender sorrow for the death of any man. 

In one of his aphorisms he wrote: "Let us endeavor so to live that whenwe come to die even the undertaker will be sorry. " And it was thus thatMark Twain himself had lived. 

No man had ever so reached the heart of the world, and one may not evenattempt to explain just why. Let us only say that it was because he wasso limitlessly human that every other human heart, in whatever sphere orcircumstance, responded to his touch. From every remote corner of theglobe the cables of condolence swept in; every printed sheet inChristendom was filled with lavish tribute; pulpits forgot his heresiesand paid him honor. No king ever died that received so rich a homage ashis. To quote or to individualize would be to cheapen this vastoffering. 

We took him to New York to the Brick Church, and Dr. Henry van Dyke spokeonly a few simple words, and Joseph Twichell came from Hartford anddelivered brokenly a prayer from a heart wrung with double grief, forHarmony, his wife, was nearing the journey's end, and a telegram thatsummoned him to her death-bed came before the services ended. 

Mark Twain, dressed in the white he loved so well, lay there with thenobility of death upon him, while a multitude of those who loved himpassed by and looked at his face for the last time. The flowers, ofwhich so many had been sent, were banked around him; but on the casketitself lay a single laurel wreath which Dan Beard and his wife had wovenfrom the laurel which grows on Stormfield hill. He was never morebeautiful than as he lay there, and it was an impressive scene to seethose thousands file by, regard him for a moment gravely, thoughtfully, and pass on. All sorts were there, rich and poor; some crossedthemselves, some saluted, some paused a little to take a closer look; butno one offered even to pick a flower. Howells came, and in his book hesays:

 I looked a moment at the face I knew so well; and it was patient with the patience I had so often seen in it: something of a puzzle, a great silent dignity, an assent to what must be from the depths of a nature whose tragical seriousness broke in the laughter which the unwise took for the whole of him. 

That night we went with him to Elmira, and next day--a somber day ofrain--he lay in those stately parlors that had seen his wedding-day, andwhere Susy had lain, and Mrs. Clemens, and Jean, while Dr. Eastman spokethe words of peace which separate us from our mortal dead. Then in thequiet, steady rain of that Sunday afternoon we laid him beside thoseothers, where he sleeps well, though some have wished that, like De Soto, he might have been laid to rest in the bed of that great river which mustalways be associated with his name. 

CCXCV

MARK TWAIN'S RELIGION

There is such a finality about death; however interesting it may be as anexperience, one cannot discuss it afterward with one's friends. I havethought it a great pity that Mark Twain could not discuss, with Howellssay, or with Twichell, the sensations and the particulars of the change, supposing there be a recognizable change, in that transition of which wehave speculated so much, with such slender returns. No one ever debatedthe undiscovered country more than he. In his whimsical, semi-seriousfashion he had considered all the possibilities of the future state--orthodox and otherwise--and had drawn picturesquely originalconclusions. He had sent Captain Stormfield in a dream to report theaspects of the early Christian heaven. He had examined the scientificaspects of the more subtle philosophies. He had considered spiritualism, transmigration, the various esoteric doctrines, and in the end he hadlogically made up his mind that death concludes all, while with that lesslogical hunger which survives in every human heart he had never ceased toexpect an existence beyond the grave. His disbelief and his pessimismwere identical in their structure. They were of his mind; never of hisheart. 

Once a woman said to him:

"Mr. Clemens, you are not a pessimist, you only think you are. " And shemight have added, with equal force and truth:

"You are not a disbeliever in immortality; you only think you are. "

Nothing could have conveyed more truly his attitude toward life anddeath. His belief in God, the Creator, was absolute; but it was a Godfar removed from the Creator of his early teaching. Every man builds hisGod according to his own capacities. Mark Twain's God was of colossalproportions--so vast, indeed, that the constellated stars were butmolecules in His veins--a God as big as space itself. 

Mark Twain had many moods, and he did not always approve of his own God;but when he altered his conception, it was likely to be in the directionof enlargement--a further removal from the human conception, and theproblem of what we call our lives. 

In 1906 he wrote:--[See also 1870, chap. Lxxviii; 1899, chap. Ccv; andvarious talks, 1906-07, etc. ] Let us now consider the real God, the genuine God, the great God, the sublime and supreme God, the authentic Creator of the real universe, whose remotenesses are visited by comets only comets unto which incredible distant Neptune is merely an out post, a Sandy Hook to homeward-bound specters of the deeps of space that have not glimpsed it before for generations--a universe not made with hands and suited to an astronomical nursery, but spread abroad through the illimitable reaches of space by the flat of the real God just mentioned, by comparison with whom the gods whose myriads infest the feeble imaginations of men are as a swarm of gnats scattered and lost in the infinitudes of the empty sky. 

At an earlier period-the date is not exactly fixable, but the stationeryused and the handwriting suggest the early eighties--he set down a fewconcisely written pages of conclusions--conclusions from which he did notdeviate materially in after years. The document follows:

 I believe in God the Almighty. 

 I do not believe He has ever sent a message to man by anybody, or delivered one to him by word of mouth, or made Himself visible to mortal eyes at any time in any place. 

 I believe that the Old and New Testaments were imagined and written by man, and that no line in them was authorized by God, much less inspired by Him. 

 I think the goodness, the justice, and the mercy of God are manifested in His works: I perceive that they are manifested toward me in this life; the logical conclusion is that they will be manifested toward me in the life to come, if there should be one. 

 I do not believe in special providences. I believe that the universe is governed by strict and immutable laws: If one man's family is swept away by a pestilence and another man's spared it is only the law working: God is not interfering in that small matter, either against the one man or in favor of the other. 

 I cannot see how eternal punishment hereafter could accomplish any good end, therefore I am not able to believe in it. To chasten a man in order to perfect him might be reasonable enough; to annihilate him when he shall have proved himself incapable of reaching perfection might be reasonable enough; but to roast him forever for the mere satisfaction of seeing him roast would not be reasonable--even the atrocious God imagined by the Jews would tire of the spectacle eventually. 

 There may be a hereafter and there may not be. I am wholly indifferent about it. If I am appointed to live again I feel sure it will be for some more sane and useful purpose than to flounder about for ages in a lake of fire and brimstone for having violated a confusion of ill-defined and contradictory rules said (but not evidenced) to be of divine institution. If annihilation is to follow death I shall not be aware of the annihilation, and therefore shall not care a straw about it. 

 I believe that the world's moral laws are the outcome of the world's experience. It needed no God to come down out of heaven to tell men that murder and theft and the other immoralities were bad, both for the individual who commits them and for society which suffers from them. 

 If I break all these moral laws I cannot see how I injure God by it, for He is beyond the reach of injury from me--I could as easily injure a planet by throwing mud at it. It seems to me that my misconduct could only injure me and other men. I cannot benefit God by obeying these moral laws--I could as easily benefit the planet by withholding my mud. (Let these sentences be read in the light of the fact that I believe I have received moral laws only from man --none whatever from God. ) Consequently I do not see why I should be either punished or rewarded hereafter for the deeds I do here. 

If the tragedies of life shook his faith in the goodness and justice andthe mercy of God as manifested toward himself, he at any rate neverquestioned that the wider scheme of the universe was attuned to theimmutable law which contemplates nothing less than absolute harmony. Inever knew him to refer to this particular document; but he neverdestroyed it and never amended it, nor is it likely that he would havedone either had it been presented to him for consideration even duringthe last year of his life. 

He was never intentionally dogmatic. In a memorandum on a fly-leaf ofMoncure D. Conway's Sacred Anthology he wrote:

 RELIGION

The easy confidence with which I know another man's religion is follyteaches me to suspect that my own is also. MARK TWAIN, 19th Cent. A. D. 

And in another note:

I would not interfere with any one's religion, either to strengthen it orto weaken it. I am not able to believe one's religion can affect hishereafter one way or the other, no matter what that religion maybe. Butit may easily be a great comfort to him in this life hence it is avaluable possession to him. 

Mark Twain's religion was a faith too wide for doctrines--a benevolencetoo limitless for creeds. From the beginning he strove againstoppression, sham, and evil in every form. He despised meanness; heresented with every drop of blood in him anything that savored ofpersecution or a curtailment of human liberties. It was a religionidentified with his daily life and his work. He lived as he wrote, andhe wrote as he believed. His favorite weapon was humor--good-humor--withlogic behind it. A sort of glorified truth it was truth wearing a smileof gentleness, hence all the more quickly heeded. 

"He will be remembered with the great humorists of all time, " saysHowells, "with Cervantes, with Swift, or with any others worthy of hiscompany; none of them was his equal in humanity. "

Mark Twain understood the needs of men because he was himself supremelyhuman. In one of his dictations he said:

I have found that there is no ingredient of the race which I do notpossess in either a small or a large way. When it is small, as comparedwith the same ingredient in somebody else, there is still enough of itfor all the purposes of examination. 

With his strength he had inherited the weaknesses of our kind. With him, as with another, a myriad of dreams and schemes and purposes dailyflitted by. With him, as with another, the spirit of desire led himoften to a high mountain-top, and was not rudely put aside, butlingeringly--and often invited to return. With him, as with another, acrowd of jealousies and resentments, and wishes for the ill of others, daily went seething and scorching along the highways of the soul. Withhim, as with another, regret, remorse, and shame stood at the bedsideduring long watches of the night; and in the end, with him, the betterthing triumphed--forgiveness and generosity and justice--in a word, Humanity. Certain of his aphorisms and memoranda each in itselfconstitutes an epitome of Mark Twain's creed. His paraphrase, "When indoubt tell the truth, " is one of these, and he embodied his wholeattitude toward Infinity when in one of his stray pencilings he wrote:

Why, even poor little ungodlike man holds himself responsible for thewelfare of his child to the extent of his ability. It is all that werequire of God. 

CCXCVI

POSTSCRIPT

Every life is a drama--a play in all its particulars; comedy, farce, tragedy--all the elements are there. To examine in detail any life, however conspicuous or obscure, is to become amazed not only at theinevitable sequence of events, but at the interlinking of details, oftenfar removed, into a marvelously intricate pattern which no art can hopeto reproduce, and can only feebly imitate. 

The biographer may reconstruct an episode, present a picture, or reflecta mood by which the reader is enabled to feel something of the glow ofpersonality and know, perhaps, a little of the substance of the past. Inso far as the historian can accomplish this his work is a success. Atbest his labor will be pathetically incomplete, for whatever its detailand its resemblance to life, these will record mainly but an outwardexpression, behind which was the mighty sweep and tumult of unwrittenthought, the overwhelming proportion of any life, which no other humansoul can ever really know. 

Mark Twain's appearance on the stage of the world was a succession ofdramatic moments. He was always exactly in the setting. Whatever hedid, or whatever came to him, was timed for the instant of greatesteffect. At the end he was more widely observed and loved and honoredthan ever before, and at the right moment and in the right manner hedied. 

How little one may tell of such a life as his! He traveled always such abroad and brilliant highway, with plumes flying and crowds followingafter. Such a whirling panorama of life, and death, and change! I havewritten so much, and yet I have put so much aside--and often the bestthings, it seemed afterward, perhaps because each in its way was best andthe variety infinite. One may only strive to be faithful--and I wouldhave made it better if I could. 

 APPENDIX

APPENDIX A

LETTER FROM ORION CLEMENS TO MISS WOOD CONCERNING HENRY CLEMENS

(See Chapter xxvi)

 KEOKUK, Iowa, October 3, 1858. 

MISS WOOD, --My mother having sent me your kind letter, with a requestthat myself and wife should write to you, I hasten to do so. 

In my memory I can go away back to Henry's infancy; I see his large, blueeyes intently regarding my father when he rebuked him for his credulityin giving full faith to the boyish idea of planting his marbles, expecting a crop therefrom; then comes back the recollection of the timewhen, standing we three alone by our father's grave, I told them alwaysto remember that brothers should be kind to each other; afterward I seeHenry returning from school with his books for the last time. He must gointo my printing-office. He learned rapidly. A word of encouragement ora word of discouragement told upon his organization electrically. Icould see the effects in his day's work. Sometimes I would say, "Henry!"He would stand full front with his eyes upon mine--all attention. If Icommanded him to do something, without a word he was off instantly, probably in a run. If a cat was to be drowned or shot Sam (thoughunwilling yet firm) was selected for the work. If a stray kitten was tobe fed and taken care of Henry was expected to attend to it, and he wouldfaithfully do so. So they grew up, and many was the grave lecturecommenced by ma, to the effect that Sam was misleading and spoilingHenry. But the lectures were never concluded, for Sam would reply with awitticism, or dry, unexpected humor, that would drive the lecture cleanout of my mother's mind, and change it to a laugh. Those were happierdays. My mother was as lively as any girl of sixteen. She is not sonow. And sister Pamela I have described in describing Henry; for she washis counterpart. The blow falls crushingly on her. But the boys grewup--Sam a rugged, brave, quick-tempered, generous-hearted fellow, Henryquiet, observing, thoughtful, leaning on Sam for protection; Sam and Itoo leaning on him for knowledge picked up from conversation or books, for Henry seemed never to forget anything, and devoted much of hisleisure hours to reading. 

Henry is gone! His death was horrible! How I could have sat by him, hung over him, watched day and night every change of expression, andministered to every want in my power that I could discover. This wasdenied to me, but Sam, whose organization is such as to feel the utmostextreme of every feeling, was there. Both his capacity of enjoyment andhis capacity of suffering are greater than mine; and knowing how it wouldhave affected me to see so sad a scene, I can somewhat appreciate Sam'ssufferings. In this time of great trouble, when my two brothers, whoseheartstrings have always been a part of my own, were suffering the utmoststretch of mortal endurance, you were there, like a good angel, to aidand console, and I bless and thank you for it with my whole heart. Ithank all who helped them then; I thank them for the flowers they sent toHenry, for the tears that fell for their sufferings, and when he died, and all of them for all the kind attentions they bestowed upon the poorboys. We thank the physicians, and we shall always gratefully rememberthe kindness of the gentleman who at so much expense to himself enabledus to deposit Henry's remains by our father. 

With many kind wishes for your future welfare, I remain your earnestfriend, Respectfully, ORION CLEMENS. 

APPENDIX B

MARK TWAIN'S BURLESQUE OF CAPTAIN ISAIAH SELLERS

(See Chapter xxvii)

The item which served as a text for the "Sergeant Fathom" communicationwas as follows:

 VICKSBURG, May 4, 1859. 

My opinion for the benefit of the citizens of New Orleans: The water ishigher this far up than it has been since 1815. My opinion is that thewater will be four feet deep in Canal Street before the first of nextJune. Mrs. Turner's plantation at the head of Big Black Island is allunder water, and it has not been since 1815. I. SELLERS. --[Captain Sellers, as in this case, sometimes signed his own name to his communications. ]

THE BURLESQUEINTRODUCTORY

Our friend Sergeant Fathom, one of the oldest cub pilots on the river, and now on the Railroad Line steamer Trombone, sends us a rather badaccount concerning the state of the river. Sergeant Fathom is a "cub" ofmuch experience, and although we are loath to coincide in his view of thematter, we give his note a place in our columns, only hoping that hisprophecy will not be verified in this instance. While introducing theSergeant, "we consider it but simple justice (we quote from a friend ofhis) to remark that he is distinguished for being, in pilot phrase, 'close, ' as well as superhumanly 'safe. '" It is a well-known fact thathe has made fourteen hundred and fifty trips in the New Orleans and St. Louis trade without causing serious damage to a steamboat. Thisastonishing success is attributed to the fact that he seldom runs hisboat after early candle-light. It is related of the Sergeant that uponone occasion he actually ran the chute of Glasscock's Island, down-stream, in the night, and at a time, too, when the river wasscarcely more than bank full. His method of accomplishing this featproves what we have just said of his "safeness"--he sounded the chutefirst, and then built a fire at the head of the island to run by. As tothe Sergeant's "closeness, " we have heard it whispered that he once wentup to the right of the "Old Hen, "--[Glasscock's Island and the "Old Hen"were phenomenally safe places. ]--but this is probably a pardonable littleexaggeration, prompted by the love and admiration in which he is held byvarious ancient dames of his acquaintance (for albeit the Sergeant mayhave already numbered the allotted years of man, still his form is erect, his step is firm, his hair retains its sable hue, and, more than all, hehath a winning way about him, an air of docility and sweetness, if youwill, and a smoothness of speech, together with an exhaustless fund offunny sayings; and, lastly, an overflowing stream, without beginning, ormiddle, or end, of astonishing reminiscences of the ancient Mississippi, which, taken together, form a 'tout ensemble' which is sufficient excusefor the tender epithet which is, by common consent, applied to him by allthose ancient dames aforesaid, of "che-arming creature!"). As theSergeant has been longer on the river, and is better acquainted with itthan any other "cub" extant, his remarks are entitled to far moreconsideration, and are always read with the deepest interest by high andlow, rich and poor, from "Kiho" to Kamschatka, for let it be known thathis fame extends to the uttermost parts of the earth:

THE COMMUNICATION

R. R. Steamer Trombone, VICKSBURG, May 8, 1859. 

The river from New Orleans up to Natchez is higher than it has been sincethe niggers were executed (which was in the fall of 1813) and my opinionis that if the rise continues at this rate the water will be on the roofof the St. Charles Hotel before the middle of January. The point atCairo, which has not even been moistened by the river since 1813, is nowentirely under water. 

However, Mr. Editor, the inhabitants of the Mississippi Valley should notact precipitately and sell their plantations at a sacrifice on account ofthis prophecy of mine, for I shall proceed to convince them of a greatfact in regard to this matter, viz. : that the tendency of the Mississippiis to rise less and less high every year (with an occasional variation ofthe rule), that such has been the case for many centuries, and eventuallythat it will cease to rise at all. Therefore, I would hint to theplanters, as we say in an innocent little parlor game commonly called"draw, " that if they can only "stand the rise" this time they may enjoythe comfortable assurance that the old river's banks will never hold a"full" again during their natural lives. 

In the summer of 1763 I came down the river on the old first Jubilee. Shewas new then, however; a singular sort of a single-engine boat, with aChinese captain and a Choctaw crew, forecastle on her stern, wheels inthe center, and the jackstaff "nowhere, " for I steered her with awindow-shutter, and when we wanted to land we sent a line ashore and"rounded her to" with a yoke of oxen. 

Well, sir, we wooded off the top of the big bluff above Selmathe only dryland visible--and waited there three weeks, swapping knives and playing"seven up" with the Indians, waiting for the river to fall. Finally, itfell about a hundred feet, and we went on. One day we rounded to, and Igot in a horse-trough, which my partner borrowed from the Indians upthere at Selma while they were at prayers, and went down to sound aroundNo. 8, and while I was gone my partner got aground on the hills atHickman. After three days' labor we finally succeeded in sparring heroff with a capstan bar, and went on to Memphis. By the time we got therethe river had subsided to such an extent that we were able to land wherethe Gayoso House now stands. We finished loading at Memphis, and loadedpart of the stone for the present St. Louis Court House (which was thenin process of erection), to be taken up on our return trip. 

You can form some conception, by these memoranda, of how high the waterwas in 1763. In 1775 it did not rise so high by thirty feet; in 1790 itmissed the original mark at least sixty-five feet; in 1797, one hundredand fifty feet; and in 1806, nearly two hundred and fifty feet. Thesewere "high-water" years. The "high waters" since then have been soinsignificant that I have scarcely taken the trouble to notice them. Thus, you will perceive that the planters need not feel uneasy. Theriver may make an occasional spasmodic effort at a flood, but the time isapproaching when it will cease to rise altogether. 

In conclusion, sir, I will condescend to hint at the foundation of thesearguments: When me and De Soto discovered the Mississippi I could standat Bolivar Landing (several miles above "Roaring Waters Bar") and pitch abiscuit to the main shore on the other side, and in low water we wadedacross at Donaldsonville. The gradual widening and deepening of theriver is the whole secret of the matter. 

 Yours, etc. SERGEANT FATHOM. 

APPENDIX C

I

MARK TWAIN'S EMPIRE CITY HOAX (See Chapter xli)THE LATEST SENSATION. 

 A Victim to Jeremy Diddling Trustees--He Cuts his Throat from Ear to Ear, Scalps his Wife, and Dashes Out the Brains of Six Helpless Children!

From Abram Curry, who arrived here yesterday afternoon from Carson, welearn the following particulars concerning a bloody massacre which wascommitted in Ormsby County night before last. It seems that during thepast six months a man named P. Hopkins, or Philip Hopkins, has beenresiding with his family in the old log-house just at the edge of thegreat pine forest which lies between Empire City and Dutch Nick's. Thefamily consisted of nine children--five girls and four boys--the oldestof the group, Mary, being nineteen years old, and the youngest, Tommy, about a year and a half. Twice in the past two months Mrs. Hopkins, while visiting Carson, expressed fears concerning the sanity of herhusband, remarking that of late he had been subject to fits of violence, and that during the prevalence of one of these he had threatened to takeher life. It was Mrs. Hopkins's misfortune to be given to exaggeration, however, and but little attention was given to what she said. 

About 10 o'clock on Monday evening Hopkins dashed into Carson onhorseback, with his throat cut from ear to ear, and bearing in his hand areeking scalp, from which the warm, smoking blood was still dripping, andfell in a dying condition in front of the Magnolia saloon. Hopkinsexpired, in the course of five minutes, without speaking. The long, redhair of the scalp he bore marked it as that of Mrs. Hopkins. A number ofcitizens, headed by Sheriff Gasherie, mounted at once and rode down toHopkins's house, where a ghastly scene met their eyes. The scalplesscorpse of Mrs. Hopkins lay across the threshold, with her head split openand her right hand almost severed from the wrist. Near her lay the axwith which the murderous deed had been committed. In one of the bedroomssix of the children were found, one in bed and the others scattered aboutthe floor. They were all dead. Their brains had evidently been dashedout with a club, and every mark about them seemed to have been made witha blunt instrument. The children must have struggled hard for theirlives, as articles of clothing and broken furniture were strewn about theroom in the utmost confusion. Julia and Emma, aged respectively fourteenand seventeen, were found in the kitchen, bruised and insensible, but itis thought their recovery is possible. The eldest girl, Mary, must havesought refuge, in her terror, in the garret, as her body was found therefrightfully mutilated, and the knife with which her wounds had beeninflicted still sticking in her side. The two girls Julia and Emma, whohad recovered sufficiently to be able to talk yesterday morning, declarethat their father knocked them down with a billet of wood and stamped onthem. They think they were the first attacked. They further state thatHopkins had shown evidence of derangement all day, but had exhibited noviolence. He flew into a passion and attempted to murder them becausethey advised him to go to bed and compose his mind. 

Curry says Hopkins was about forty-two years of age, and a native ofwestern Pennsylvania; he was always affable and polite, and until veryrecently no one had ever heard of his ill-treating his family. He hadbeen a heavy owner in the best mines of Virginia and Gold Hill, but whenthe San Francisco papers exposed our game of cooking dividends in orderto bolster up our stocks he grew afraid and sold out, and invested animmense amount in the Spring Valley Water Company, of San Francisco. Hewas advised to do this by a relative of his, one of the editors of theSan Francisco Bulletin, who had suffered pecuniarily by thedividend-cooking system as applied to the Daney Mining Company recently. Hopkins had not long ceased to own in the various claims on the Comstocklead, however, when several dividends were cooked on his newly acquiredproperty, their water totally dried up, and Spring Valley stock went downto nothing. It is presumed that this misfortune drove him mad, andresulted in his killing himself and the greater portion of his family. The newspapers of San Francisco permitted this water company to go onborrowing money and cooking dividends, under cover of which the cunningfinanciers crept out of the tottering concern, leaving the crash to comeupon poor and unsuspecting stockholders, without offering to expose thevillainy at work. We hope the fearful massacre detailed above may provethe saddest result of their silence. 

II

NEWS-GATHERING WITH MARK TWAIN. 

Alfred Doten's son gives the following account of a reporting trip madeby his father and Mark Twain, when the two were on Comstock papers:

My father and Mark Twain were once detailed to go over to Como and writeup some new mines that had been discovered over there. My father was onthe Gold Hill News. He and Mark had not met before, but became promptlyacquainted, and were soon calling each other by their first names. 

They went to a little hotel at Carson, agreeing to do their work theretogether next morning. When morning came they set out, and suddenly on acorner Mark stopped and turned to my father, saying:

"By gracious, Alf! Isn't that a brewery?"

"It is, Mark. Let's go in. "

They did so, and remained there all day, swapping yarns, sipping beer, and lunching, going back to the hotel that night. 

The next morning precisely the same thing occurred. When they were onthe same corner, Mark stopped as if he had never been there before, andsand:

"Good gracious, Alf! Isn't that a brewery?"

"It is, Mark. Let's go in. "

So again they went in, and again stayed all day. 

This happened again the next morning, and the next. Then my fatherbecame uneasy. A letter had come from Gold Hill, asking him where hisreport of the mines was. They agreed that next morning they would reallybegin the story; that they would climb to the top of a hill thatoverlooked the mines, and write it from there. 

But the next morning, as before, Mark was surprised to discover thebrewery, and once more they went in. A few moments later, however, a manwho knew all about the mines--a mining engineer connected with them--camein. He was a godsend. My father set down a valuable, informing story, while Mark got a lot of entertaining mining yarns out of him. 

Next day Virginia City and Gold Hill were gaining information from myfather's article, and entertainment from Mark's story of the mines. 

APPENDIX D

FROM MARK TWAIN'S FIRST LECTURE, DELIVERED OCTOBER 2, 1866. 

(See Chapter liv)HAWAIIAN IMPORTANCE TO AMERICA. 

After a full elucidation of the sugar industry of the Sandwich Islands, its profits and possibilities, he said:

I have dwelt upon this subject to show you that these islands have agenuine importance to America--an importance which is not generallyappreciated by our citizens. They pay revenues into the United StatesTreasury now amounting to over a half a million a year. 

I do not know what the sugar yield of the world is now, but ten yearsago, according to the Patent Office reports, it was 800, 000 hogsheads. The Sandwich Islands, properly cultivated by go-ahead Americans, arecapable of providing one-third as much themselves. With the PacificRailroad built, the great China Mail Line of steamers touching atHonolulu--we could stock the islands with Americans and supply a third ofthe civilized world with sugar--and with the silkiest, longest-stapledcotton this side of the Sea Islands, and the very best quality ofrice. .. . The property has got to fall to some heir, and why not theUnited States?

NATIVE PASSION FOR FUNERALS

They are very fond of funerals. Big funerals are their main weakness. Fine grave clothes, fine funeral appointments, and a long procession arethings they take a generous delight in. They are fond of their chief andtheir king; they reverence them with a genuine reverence and love themwith a warm affection, and often look forward to the happiness they willexperience in burying them. They will beg, borrow, or steal moneyenough, and flock from all the islands, to be present at a royal funeralon Oahu. Years ago a Kanaka and his wife were condemned to be hanged formurder. They received the sentence with manifest satisfaction because itgave an opening for a funeral, you know. All they care for is a funeral. It makes but little difference to them whose it is; they would as soonattend their own funeral as anybody else's. This couple were people ofconsequence, and had landed estates. They sold every foot of ground theyhad and laid it out in fine clothes to be hung in. And the womanappeared on the scaffold in a white satin dress and slippers and fathomsof gaudy ribbon, and the man was arrayed in a gorgeous vest, blueclaw-hammer coat and brass buttons, and white kid gloves. As the noosewas adjusted around his neck, he blew his nose with a grand theatricalflourish, so as to show his embroidered white handkerchief. I never, never knew of a couple who enjoyed hanging more than they did. 

VIEW FROM HALEAKALA

It is a solemn pleasure to stand upon the summit of the extinct crater ofHaleakala, ten thousand feet above the sea, and gaze down into its awfulcrater, 27 miles in circumference and ago feet deep, and to picture toyourself the seething world of fire that once swept up out of thetremendous abyss ages ago. 

The prodigious funnel is dead and silent now, and even has bushes growingfar down in its bottom, where the deep-sea line could hardly have reachedin the old times, when the place was filled with liquid lava. Thesebushes look like parlor shrubs from the summit where you stand, and thefile of visitors moving through them on their mules is diminished to adetachment of mice almost; and to them you, standing so high up againstthe sun, ten thousand feet above their heads, look no larger than agrasshopper. 

This in the morning; but at three or four in the afternoon a thousandlittle patches of white clouds, like handfuls of wool, come driftingnoiselessly, one after another, into the crater, like a procession ofshrouded phantoms, and circle round and round the vast sides, and settlegradually down and mingle together until the colossal basin is filled tothe brim with snowy fog and all its seared and desolate wonders arehidden from sight. 

And then you may turn your back to the crater and look far away upon thebroad valley below, with its sugar-houses glinting like white specks inthe distance, and the great sugar-fields diminished to green veils amidthe lighter-tinted verdure around them, and abroad upon the limitlessocean. But I should not say you look down; you look up at these things. 

You are ten thousand feet above them, but yet you seem to stand in abasin, with the green islands here and there, and the valleys and thewide ocean, and the remote snow-peak of Mauna Loa, all raised up beforeand above you, and pictured out like a brightly tinted map hung at theceiling of a room. 

You look up at everything; nothing is below you. It has a singular andstartling effect to see a miniature world thus seemingly hung in mid-air. 

But soon the white clouds come trooping along in ghostly squadrons andmingle together in heavy masses a quarter of a mile below you and shutout everything-completely hide the sea and all the earth save thepinnacle you stand on. As far as the eye can reach, it finds nothing torest upon but a boundless plain of clouds tumbled into all manner offantastic shapes-a billowy ocean of wool aflame with the gold and purpleand crimson splendors of the setting sun! And so firm does this grandcloud pavement look that you can hardly persuade yourself that you couldnot walk upon it; that if you stepped upon it you would plunge headlongand astonish your friends at dinner ten thousand feet below. 

Standing on that peak, with all the world shut out by that vast plain ofclouds, a feeling of loneliness comes over a man which suggests to hismind the last man at the flood, perched high upon the last rock, withnothing visible on any side but a mournful waste of waters, and the arkdeparting dimly through the distant mists and leaving him to storm andnight and solitude and death!

NOTICE OF MARK TWAIN'S LECTURE

"THE TROUBLE IS OVER"

"The inimitable Mark Twain, delivered himself last night of his firstlecture on the Sandwich Islands, or anything else. 

"Some time before the hour appointed to open his head the Academy ofMusic (on Pine Street) was densely crowded with one of the mostfashionable audiences it was ever my privilege to witness during my longresidence in this city. The Elite of the town were there, and so was theGovernor of the State, occupying one of the boxes, whose rotund face wassuffused with a halo of mirth during the whole entertainment. Theaudience promptly notified Mark by the usual sign--stamping--that theauspicious hour had arrived, and presently the lecturer came sidling andswinging out from the left of the stage. His very manner produced agenerally vociferous laugh from the assemblage. He opened with anapology, by saying that he had partly succeeded in obtaining a band, butat the last moment the party engaged backed out. He explained that hehad hired a man to play the trombone, but he, on learning that he was theonly person engaged, came at the last moment and informed him that hecould not play. This placed Mark in a bad predicament, and wishing toknow his reasons for deserting him at that critical moment, he replied, 'That he wasn't going to make a fool of himself by sitting up there onthe stage and blowing his horn all by himself. ' After the applausesubsided, he assumed a very grave countenance and commenced his remarksproper with the following well-known sentence: 'When, in the course ofhuman events, ' etc. He lectured fully an hour and a quarter, and hishumorous sayings were interspersed with geographical, agricultural, andstatistical remarks, sometimes branching off and reaching beyond, soaring, in the very choicest language, up to the very pinnacle ofdescriptive power. "

APPENDIX E

FROM "THE JUMPING FROG" BOOK (MARK TWAIN'S FIRST PUBLISHED VOLUME)

(See Chapters lviii and lix)

I

ADVERTISEMENT

"Mark Twain" is too well known to the public to require a formalintroduction at my hands. By his story of the Frog he scaled the heightsof popularity at a single jump and won for himself the 'sobriquet' of TheWild Humorist of the Pacific Slope. He is also known to fame as TheMoralist of the Main; and it is not unlikely that as such he will go downto posterity. It is in his secondary character, as humorist, however, rather than in the primal one of moralist, that I aim to present him inthe present volume. And here a ready explanation will be found for thesomewhat fragmentary character of many of these sketches; for it wasnecessary to snatch threads of humor wherever they could be found--veryoften detaching them from serious articles and moral essays with whichthey were woven and entangled. Originally written for newspaperpublication, many of the articles referred to events of the day, theinterest of which has now passed away, and contained local allusions, which the general reader would fail to understand; in such cases excisionbecame imperative. Further than this, remark or comment is unnecessary. Mark Twain never resorts to tricks of spelling nor rhetorical buffooneryfor the purpose of provoking a laugh; the vein of his humor runs too richand deep to make surface gliding necessary. But there are few who canresist the quaint similes, keen satire, and hard, good sense which formthe staple of his writing. J. P. 

II

FROM ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS

"MORAL STATISTICIAN"--I don't want any of your statistics. I took yourwhole batch and lit my pipe with it. I hate your kind of people. Youare always ciphering out how much a man's health is injured, and how muchhis intellect is impaired, and how many pitiful dollars and cents hewastes in the course of ninety-two years' indulgence in the fatalpractice of smoking; and in the equally fatal practice of drinkingcoffee; and in playing billiards occasionally; and in taking a glass ofwine at dinner, etc. , etc. , etc. . . . 

Of course you can save money by denying yourself all these vicious littleenjoyments for fifty years; but then what can you do with it? What usecan you put it to? Money can't save your infinitesimal soul. All theuse that money can be put to is to purchase comfort and enjoyment in thislife; therefore, as you are an enemy to comfort and enjoyment, where isthe use in accumulating cash? It won't do for you to say that you canuse it to better purpose in furnishing good table, and in charities, andin supporting tract societies, because you know yourself that you peoplewho have no petty vices are never known to give away a cent, and that youstint yourselves so in the matter of food that you are always feeble andhungry. And you never dare to laugh in the daytime for fear some poorwretch, seeing you in a good-humor, will try to borrow a dollar of you;and in church you are always down on your knees, with your eyes buried inthe cushion, when the contribution-box comes around; and you never givethe revenue-officers a true statement of your income. Now you all knowall these things yourself, don't you? Very well, then, what is the useof your stringing out your miserable lives to a clean and withered oldage? What is the use of your saving money that is so utterly worthlessto you? In a word, why don't you go off somewhere and die, and not bealways trying to seduce people into becoming as "ornery" and unlovable asyou are yourselves, by your ceaseless and villainous "moral statistics"?Now, I don't approve of dissipation, and I don't indulge in it, either;but I haven't a particle of confidence in a man who has no redeemingpetty vices whatever, and so I don't want to hear from you any more. Ithink you are the very same man who read me a long lecture last weekabout the degrading vice of smoking cigars and then came back, in myabsence, with your vile, reprehensible fire-proof gloves on, and carriedoff my beautiful parlor-stove. 

III

FROM "A STRANGE DREAM"

(Example of Mark Twain's Early Descriptive Writing)

. . . In due time I stood, with my companion, on the wall of the vastcaldron which the natives, ages ago, named 'Hale mau mau'--the abysswherein they were wont to throw the remains of their chiefs, to the endthat vulgar feet might never tread above them. We stood there, at deadof night, a mile above the level of the sea, and looked down a thousandfeet upon a boiling, surging, roaring ocean of fire!--shaded our eyesfrom the blinding glare, and gazed far away over the crimson waves with avague notion that a supernatural fleet, manned by demons and freightedwith the damned, might presently sail up out of the remote distance;started when tremendous thunder-bursts shook the earth, and followed withfascinated eyes the grand jets of molten lava that sprang high up towardthe zenith and exploded in a world of fiery spray that lit up the somberheavens with an infernal splendor. 

"What is your little bonfire of Vesuvius to this?"

My ejaculation roused my companion from his reverie, and we fell into aconversation appropriate to the occasion and the surroundings. We cameat last to speak of the ancient custom of casting the bodies of deadchieftains into this fearful caldron; and my comrade, who is of the bloodroyal, mentioned that the founder of his race, old King Kamehameha theFirst--that invincible old pagan Alexander--had found other sepulturethan the burning depths of the 'Hale mau mau'. I grew interested atonce; I knew that the mystery of what became of the corpse of the warriorking hail never been fathomed; I was aware that there was a legendconnected with this matter; and I felt as if there could be no morefitting time to listen to it than the present. The descendant of theKamehamehas said:

The dead king was brought in royal state down the long, winding road thatdescends from the rim of the crater to the scorched and chasm-riven plainthat lies between the 'Hale mau mau' and those beetling walls yonder inthe distance. The guards were set and the troops of mourners began theweird wail for the departed. In the middle of the night came a sound ofinnumerable voices in the air and the rush of invisible wings; thefuneral torches wavered, burned blue, and went out. The mourners andwatchers fell to the ground paralyzed by fright, and many minutes elapsedbefore any one dared to move or speak; for they believed that the phantommessengers of the dread Goddess of Fire had been in their midst. When atlast a torch was lighted the bier was vacant--the dead monarch had beenspirited away!

APPENDIX F

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD (See Chapter lx)

NEW YORK "HERALD" EDITORIAL ON THE RETURN OF THE "QUAKER CITY"PILGRIMAGE, NOVEMBER 19, 1867. 

In yesterday's Herald we published a most amusing letter from the pen ofthat most amusing American genius, Mark Twain, giving an account of thatmost amusing of all modern pilgrimages--the pilgrimage of the 'QuakerCity'. It has been amusing all through, this Quaker City affair. Itmight have become more serious than amusing if the ship had been sold atJaffa, Alexandria, or Yalta, in the Black Sea, as it appears might havehappened. In such a case the passengers would have been more effectuallysold than the ship. The descendants of the Puritan pilgrims have, naturally enough, some of them, an affection for ships; but if all thatis said about this religious cruise be true they have also a singularlysharp eye to business. It was scarcely wise on the part of the pilgrims, although it was well for the public, that so strange a genius as MarkTwain should have found admission into the sacred circle. We are notaware whether Mr. Twain intends giving us a book on this pilgrimage, butwe do know that a book written from his own peculiar standpoint, givingan account of the characters and events on board ship and of the sceneswhich the pilgrims witnessed, would command an almost unprecedented sale. There are varieties of genius peculiar to America. Of one of thesevarieties Mark Twain is a striking specimen. For the development of hispeculiar genius he has never had a more fitting opportunity. Besides, there are some things which he knows, and which the world ought to know, about this last edition of the Mayflower. 

APPENDIX G

MARK TWAIN AT THE CORRESPONDENTS CLUB, WASHINGTON

(See Chapter lxiii)

WOMANA EULOGY OF THE FAIR SEX. 

The Washington Correspondents Club held its anniversary on Saturdaynight. Mr. Clemens, better known as Mark Twain, responded to the toast, "Woman, the pride of the professions and the jewel of ours. " He said:

Mr. President, --I do not know why I should have been singled out toreceive the greatest distinction of the evening--for so the office ofreplying to the toast to woman has been regarded in every age. [Applause. ] I do not know why I have received this distinction, unless itbe that I am a trifle less homely than the other members of the club. But, be this as it may, Mr. President, I am proud of the position, andyou could not have chosen any one who would have accepted it more gladly, or labored with a heartier good--will to do the subject justice, than I. Because, Sir, I love the sex. [Laughter. ] I love all the women, sir, irrespective of age or color. [Laughter. ]

Human intelligence cannot estimate what we owe to woman, sir. She sewson our buttons [laughter]; she mends our clothes [laughter]; she ropes usin at the church fairs; she confides in us; she tells us whatever she canfind out about the private affairs of the neighbors; she gives goodadvice, and plenty of it; she gives us a piece of her mind sometimes--and sometimes all of it; she soothes our aching brows; she bears ourchildren. (Ours as a general thing. )--[this last sentence appears inTwain's published speeches and may have been added later. D. W. ]

In all relations of life, sir, it is but just and a graceful tribute towoman to say of her that she is a brick. [Great laughter. ]

Wheresoever you place woman, sir--in whatsoever position or estate--sheis an ornament to that place she occupies, and a treasure to the world. [Here Mr. Twain paused, looked inquiringly at his hearers, and remarkedthat the applause should come in at this point. It came in. Mr. Twainresumed his eulogy. ] Look at the noble names of history! Look atCleopatra! Look at Desdemona! Look at Florence Nightingale! Look atJoan of Arc! Look at Lucretia Borgia! [Disapprobation expressed. "Well, " said Mr. Twain, scratching his head, doubtfully, "suppose we letLucretia slide. "] Look at Joyce Heth! Look at Mother Eve! I repeat, sir, look at the illustrious names of history! Look at the WidowMachree! Look at Lucy Stone! Look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton! Look atGeorge Francis Train! [Great laughter. ] And, sir, I say with bowed headand deepest veneration, look at the mother of Washington! She raised aboy that could not lie--could not lie. [Applause. ] But he never had anychance. It might have been different with him if he had belonged to anewspaper correspondents' club. [Laughter, groans, hisses, cries of "puthim out. " Mark looked around placidly upon his excited audience, andresumed. ]

I repeat, sir, that in whatsoever position you place a woman she is anornament to society and a treasure to the world. As a sweetheart she hasfew equals and no superior [laughter]; as a cousin she is convenient; asa wealthy grandmother with an incurable distemper she is precious; as awet nurse she has no equal among men! [Laughter. ]

What, sir, would the people of this earth be without woman? They wouldbe scarce, sir. (Mighty scarce. )--[another line added later in thepublished 'Speeches'. D. W. ] Then let us cherish her, let us protect her, let us give her our support, our encouragement, our sympathy--ourselves, if we get a chance. [Laughter. ]

But, jesting aside, Mr. President, woman is lovable, gracious, kind ofheart, beautiful; worthy of all respect, of all esteem, of all deference. Not any here will refuse to drink her health right cordially, for eachand every one of us has personally known, loved, and honored the verybest one of them all--his own mother! [Applause. ]

APPENDIX H

ANNOUNCEMENT FOR LECTURE OF JULY 2, 1868

(See Chapter lxvi)

THE PUBLIC TO MARK TWAIN--CORRESPONDENCE

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR, --Hearing that you are about to sail for NewYork in the P. M. S. S. Company's steamer of the 6th July, to publish abook, and learning with the deepest concern that you propose to read achapter or two of that book in public before you go, we take this methodof expressing our cordial desire that you will not. We beg and imploreyou do not. There is a limit to human endurance. 

We are your personal friends. We have your welfare at heart. We desireto see you prosper. And it is upon these accounts, and upon these only, that we urge you to desist from the new atrocity you contemplate. Yourstruly, 60 names including: Bret Harte, Maj. -Gen. Ord, Maj. -Gen. Halleck, The Orphan Asylum, and various Benevolent Societies, Citizens on Foot and Horseback, and 1500 in the Steerage. (REPLY)

 SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th

TO THE 1, 500 AND OTHERS, --It seems to me that your course is entirelyunprecedented. Heretofore, when lecturers, singers, actors, and otherfrauds have said they were about to leave town, you have always been thevery first people to come out in a card beseeching them to hold on forjust one night more, and inflict just one more performance on the public, but as soon as I want to take a farewell benefit you come after me, witha card signed by the whole community and the board of aldermen, prayingme not to do it. But it isn't of any use. You cannot move me from myfell purpose. I will torment the people if I want to. I have a betterright to do it than these strange lecturers and orators that come herefrom abroad. It only costs the public a dollar apiece, and if they can'tstand it what do they stay here for? Am I to go away and let them havepeace and quiet for a year and a half, and then come back and onlylecture them twice? What do you take me for?

No, gentlemen, ask of me anything else and I will do it cheerfully; butdo not ask me not to afflict the people. I wish to tell them all I knowabout VENICE. I wish to tell them about the City of the Sea--that mostvenerable, most brilliant, and proudest Republic the world has ever seen. I wish to hint at what it achieved in twelve hundred years, and what itlost in two hundred. I wish to furnish a deal of pleasant information, somewhat highly spiced, but still palatable, digestible, and eminentlyfitted for the intellectual stomach. My last lecture was not as fine asI thought it was, but I have submitted this discourse to several ablecritics, and they have pronounced it good. Now, therefore, why should Iwithhold it?

Let me talk only just this once, and I will sail positively on the 6th ofJuly, and stay away until I return from China--two years. Yours truly, MARK TWAIN. (FURTHER REMONSTRANCE)

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

MR. MARK TWAIN, --Learning with profound regret that you have concluded topostpone your departure until the 6th July, and learning also, withunspeakable grief, that you propose to read from your forthcoming book, or lecture again before you go, at the New Mercantile Library, we hastento beg of you that you will not do it. Curb this spirit of lawlessviolence, and emigrate at once. Have the vessel's bill for your passagesent to us. We will pay it. 

 Your friends, Pacific Board of Brokers [and other financial and social institutions]

 SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR, --Will you start now, without any unnecessarydelay? Yours truly, Proprietors of the Alta, Bulletin, Times, Call, Examiner [and other San Francisco publications]. 

 SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR, --Do not delay your departure. You can comeback and lecture another time. In the language of the worldly--you can"cut and come again. " Your friends, THE CLERGY. 

 SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

MR. MARK TWAIN--DEAR SIR, --You had better go. Yours, THE CHIEF OF POLICE. (REPLY)

SAN FRANCISCO, June 30th. 

GENTLEMEN, --Restrain your emotions; you observe that they cannot avail. Read:

 NEW MERCANTILE LIBRARY Bush Street

 Thursday Evening, July 2, 1868 One Night Only

 FAREWELL LECTURE of MARK TWAIN Subject: The Oldest of the Republics VENICE PAST AND PRESENT

 Box-Office open Wednesday and Thursday No extra charge for reserved seats

 ADMISSION . . . . . . . . . . . ONE DOLLAR Doors open at 7 Orgies to commence at 8 P. M. 

 The public displays and ceremonies projected to give fitting eclat to this occasion have been unavoidably delayed until the 4th. The lecture will be delivered certainly on the 2d, and the event will be celebrated two days afterward by a discharge of artillery on the 4th, a procession of citizens, the reading of the Declaration of Independence, and by a gorgeous display of fireworks from Russian Hill in the evening, which I have ordered at my sole expense, the cost amounting to eighty thousand dollars. 

 AT NEW MERCANTILE LIBRARY Bush Street Thursday Evening, July 2, 1868

APPENDIX I

MARK TWAIN'S CHAMPIONSHIP OF THOMAS K. BEECHER

(See Chapter lxxiv)

There was a religious turmoil in Elmira in 1869; a disturbance among theministers, due to the success of Thomas K. Beecher in a series ofmeetings he was conducting in the Opera House. Mr. Beecher's teachingshad never been very orthodox or doctrinal, but up to this time they hadbeen seemingly unobjectionable to his brother clergymen, who fraternizedwith him and joined with him in the Monday meetings of the MinisterialUnion of Elmira, when each Monday a sermon was read by one of themembers. The situation presently changed. Mr. Beecher was preaching hisdoubtful theology to large and nightly increasing audiences, and it wastime to check the exodus. The Ministerial Union of Elmira not onlydeclined to recognize and abet the Opera House gatherings, but theyrequested him to withdraw from their Monday meetings, on the ground thathis teachings were pernicious. Mr. Beecher said nothing of the matter, and it was not made public until a notice of it appeared in a religiouspaper. Naturally such a course did not meet with the approval of theLangdon family, and awoke the scorn of a man who so detested bigotry inany form as Mark Twain. He was a stranger in the place, and notjustified to speak over his own signature, but he wrote an article andread it to members of the Langdon family and to Dr. And Mrs. Taylor, their intimate friends, who were spending an evening in the Langdon home. It was universally approved, and the next morning appeared in the ElmiraAdvertiser, over the signature of "S'cat. " It created a stir, of course. 

The article follows:

MR. BEECHER AND THE CLERGY

"The Ministerial Union of Elmira, N. Y. , at a recent meeting passedresolutions disapproving the teachings of Rev. T. K. Beecher, decliningto co-operate with him in his Sunday evening services at the Opera House, and requesting him to withdraw from their Monday morning meeting. Thishas resulted in his withdrawal, and thus the pastors are relieved fromfurther responsibility as to his action. "--N. Y. Evangelist. 

Poor Beecher! All this time he could do whatever he pleased that waswrong, and then be perfectly serene and comfortable over it, because theMinisterial Union of Elmira was responsible to God for it. He could lieif he wanted to, and those ministers had to answer for it; he couldpromote discord in the church of Christ, and those parties had to make itright with the Deity as best they could; he could teach false doctrinesto empty opera houses, and those sorrowing lambs of the Ministerial Unionhad to get out their sackcloth and ashes and stand responsible for it. Hehad such a comfortable thing of it! But he went too far. In an evilhour he slaughtered the simple geese that laid the golden egg ofresponsibility for him, and now they will uncover their customarycomplacency, and lift up their customary cackle in his behalf no more. And so, at last, he finds himself in the novel position of beingresponsible to God for his acts, instead of to the Ministerial Union ofElmira. To say that this is appalling is to state it with a degree ofmildness which amounts to insipidity. 

We cannot justly estimate this calamity, without first reviewing certainfacts that conspired to bring it about. Mr. Beecher was and is in thehabit of preaching to a full congregation in the IndependentCongregational Church, in this city. The meeting-house was not largeenough to accommodate all the people who desired admittance. Mr. Beecherregularly attended the meetings of the Ministerial Union of Elmira everyMonday morning, and they received him into their fellowship, and neverobjected to the doctrines which he taught in his church. So, in anunfortunate moment, he conceived the strange idea that they would conniveat the teaching of the same doctrines in the same way in a larger house. Therefore he secured the Opera House and proceeded to preach there everySunday evening to assemblages comprising from a thousand to fifteenhundred persons. He felt warranted in this course by a passage ofScripture which says, "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospelunto every creature. " Opera-houses were not ruled out specifically inthis passage, and so he considered it proper to regard opera-houses as apart of "all the world. " He looked upon the people who assembled thereas coming under the head of "every creature. " These ideas were as absurdas they were farfetched, but still they were the honest ebullitions of adiseased mind. His great mistake was in supposing that when he had theSaviour's indorsement of his conduct he had all that was necessary. Heoverlooked the fact that there might possibly be a conflict of opinionbetween the Saviour and the Ministerial Union of Elmira. And there was. Wherefore, blind and foolish Mr. Beecher went to his destruction. TheMinisterial Union withdrew their approbation, and left him dangling inthe air, with no other support than the countenance and approval of thegospel of Christ. 

Mr. Beecher invited his brother ministers to join forces with him andhelp him conduct the Opera House meetings. They declined with greatunanimity. In this they were wrong. Since they did not approve of thosemeetings, it was a duty they owed to their consciences and their God tocontrive their discontinuance. They knew this. They felt it. Yet theyturned coldly away and refused to help at those meetings, when they wellknew that their help, earnestly and persistently given, was able to killany great religious enterprise that ever was conceived of. 

The ministers refused, and the calamitous meetings at the Opera Housecontinued; and not only continued, but grew in interest and importance, and sapped of their congregations churches where the Gospel was preachedwith that sweet monotonous tranquillity and that impenetrable profunditywhich stir up such consternation in the strongholds of sin. It is a pityto have to record here that one clergyman refused to preach at the OperaHouse at Mr. Beecher's request, even when that incendiary was sick anddisabled; and if that man's conscience justifies him in that refusal I donot. Under the plea of charity for a sick brother he could have preachedto that Opera House multitude a sermon that would have done incalculabledamage to the Opera House experiment. And he need not have beenparticular about the sermon he chose, either. He could have relied onany he had in his barrel. 

The Opera House meetings went on; other congregations were thin, and grewthinner, but the Opera House assemblages were vast. Every Sunday night, in spite of sense and reason, multitudes passed by the churches wherethey might have been saved, and marched deliberately to the Opera Houseto be damned. The community talked, talked, talked. Everybody discussedthe fact that the Ministerial Union disapproved of the Opera Housemeetings; also the fact that they disapproved of the teachings put forththere. And everybody wondered how the Ministerial Union could tellwhether to approve or disapprove of those teachings, seeing that thoseclergymen had never attended an Opera House meeting, and therefore didn'tknow what was taught there. Everybody wondered over that curiousquestion, and they had to take it out in wondering. 

Mr. Beecher asked the Ministerial Union to state their objections to theOpera House matter. They could not--at least they did not. He said tothem that if they would come squarely out and tell him that they desiredthe discontinuance of those meetings he would discontinue them. Theydeclined to do that. Why should they have declined? They had no rightto decline, and no excuse to decline, if they honestly believed thatthose meetings interfered in the slightest degree with the best interestsof religion. (That is a proposition which the profoundest head amongthem cannot get around. )

But the Opera House meetings went on. That was the mischief of it. Andso, one Monday morning, when Mr. B. Appeared at the usual Ministers'meeting, his brother clergymen desired him to come there no more. Heasked why. They gave no reason. They simply declined to have hiscompany longer. Mr. B. Said he could not accept of this executionwithout a trial, and since he loved them and had nothing against them hemust insist upon meeting with them in the future just the same as ever. And so, after that, they met in secret, and thus got rid of this man'simportunate affection. 

The Ministerial Union had ruled out Beecher--a point gained. He wouldget up an excitement about it in public. But that was a miscalculation. He never mentioned it. They waited and waited for the grand crash, butit never came. After all their labor-pains, their ministerial mountainhad brought forth only a mouse--and a still-born one at that. Beecherhad not told on them; Beecher malignantly persisted in not telling onthem. The opportunity was slipping away. Alas, for the humiliation ofit, they had to come out and tell it themselves! And after all, theirbombshell did not hurt anybody when they did explode it. They had ceasedto be responsible to God for Beecher, and yet nobody seemed paralyzedabout it. Somehow, it was not even of sufficient importance, apparently, to get into the papers, though even the poor little facts that Smith hasbought a trotting team and Alderman Jones's child has the measles arechronicled there with avidity. Something must be done. As theMinisterial Union had told about their desolating action, when nobodyelse considered it of enough importance to tell, they would also publishit, now that the reporters failed to see anything in it important enoughto print. And so they startled the entire religious world no doubt bysolemnly printing in the Evangelist the paragraph which heads thisarticle. They have got their excommunication-bull started at last. Itis going along quite lively now, and making considerable stir, let ushope. They even know it in Podunk, wherever that may be. It excited atwo-line paragraph there. Happy, happy world, that knows at last that alittle congress of congregationless clergymen of whom it had never heardbefore have crushed a famous Beecher, and reduced his audiences fromfifteen hundred down to fourteen hundred and seventy-five at one fellblow! Happy, happy world, that knows at last that these obscureinnocents are no longer responsible for the blemishless teachings, thepower, the pathos, the logic, and the other and manifold intellectualpyrotechnics that seduce, but to damn, the Opera House assemblages everySunday night in Elmira! And miserable, O thrice miserable Beecher! Forthe Ministerial Union of Elmira will never, no, never more be responsibleto God for his shortcomings. (Excuse these tears. )

(For the protection of a man who is uniformly charged with all thenewspaper deviltry that sees the light in Elmira journals, I take thisopportunity of stating, under oath, duly subscribed before a magistrate, that Mr. Beecher did not write this article. And further still, that hedid not inspire it. And further still, the Ministerial Union of Elmiradid not write it. And finally, the Ministerial Union did not ask me towrite it. No, I have taken up this cudgel in defense of the MinisterialUnion of Elmira solely from a love of justice. Without solicitation, Ihave constituted myself the champion of the Ministerial Union of Elmira, and it shall be a labor of love with me to conduct their side of aquarrel in print for them whenever they desire me to do it; or if theyare busy, and have not the time to ask me, I will cheerfully do itanyhow. In closing this I must remark that if any question the right ofthe clergymen of Elmira to turn Mr. Beecher out of the Ministerial Union, to such I answer that Mr. Beecher recreated that institution after it hadbeen dead for many years, and invited those gentlemen to come into it, which they did, and so of course they have a right to turn him out ifthey want to. The difference between Beecher and the man who put anadder in his bosom is, that Beecher put in more adders than he did, andconsequently had a proportionately livelier time of it when they gotwarmed up. ) Cheerfully, S'CAT. 

APPENDIX J

THE INDIGNITY PUT UPON THE REMAINS OF GEORGE HOLLAND BY THE REV. MR. SABINE. 

(See Chapter lxxvii)

What a ludicrous satire it was upon Christian charity!--even upon thevague, theoretical idea of it which doubtless this small saint mouthsfrom his own pulpit every Sunday. Contemplate this freak of nature, andthink what a Cardiff giant of self-righteousness is crowded into hispigmy skin. If we probe, and dissect; and lay open this diseased, thiscancerous piety of his, we are forced to the conviction that it is theproduction of an impression on his part that his guild do about all thegood that is done on the earth, and hence are better than common clay--hence are competent to say to such as George Holland, "You areunworthy; you are a play-actor, and consequently a sinner; I cannot takethe responsibility of recommending you to the mercy of Heaven. " It musthave had its origin in that impression, else he would have thought, "Weare all instruments for the carrying out of God's purposes; it is not forme to pass judgment upon your appointed share of the work, or to praiseor to revile it; I have divine authority for it that we are all sinners, and therefore it is not for me to discriminate and say we will supplicatefor this sinner, for he was a merchant prince or a banker, but we willbeseech no forgiveness for this other one, for he was a play-actor. "

It surely requires the furthest possible reach of self-righteousness toenable a man to lift his scornful nose in the air and turn his back uponso poor and pitiable a thing as a dead stranger come to beg the lastkindness that humanity can do in its behalf. This creature has violatedthe letter of the Gospel, and judged George Holland--not George Holland, either, but his profession through him. Then it is, in a measure, fairthat we judge this creature's guild through him. In effect he has said, "We are the salt of the earth; we do all the good work that is done; tolearn how to be good and do good men must come to us; actors and such areobstacles to moral progress. " Pray look at the thing reasonably amoment, laying aside all biases of education and custom. If a commonpublic impression is fair evidence of a thing then this minister'slegitimate, recognized, and acceptable business is to tell people calmly, coldly, and in stiff, written sentences, from the pulpit, to go and doright, be just, be merciful, be charitable. And his congregation forgetit all between church and home. But for fifty years it was GeorgeHolland's business on the stage to make his audience go and do right, andbe just, merciful, and charitable--because by his living, breathing, feeling pictures he showed them what it was to do these things, and howto do them, and how instant and ample was the reward! Is it not asingular teacher of men, this reverend gentleman who is so poorlyinformed himself as to put the whole stage under ban, and say, "I do notthink it teaches moral lessons"? Where was ever a sermon preached thatcould make filial ingratitude so hateful to men as the sinful play of"King Lear"? Or where was there ever a sermon that could so convince menof the wrong and the cruelty of harboring a pampered and unanalyzedjealousy as the sinful play of "Othello"? And where are there tenpreachers who can stand in the pulpit preaching heroism, unselfishdevotion, and lofty patriotism, and hold their own against any one offive hundred William Tells that can be raised upon five hundred stages inthe land at a day's notice? It is almost fair and just to aver (althoughit is profanity) that nine-tenths of all the kindness and forbearance andChristian charity and generosity in the hearts of the American peopletoday got there by being filtered down from their fountain-head, thegospel of Christ, through dramas and tragedies and comedies on the stage, and through the despised novel and the Christmas story, and through thethousand and one lessons, suggestions, and narratives of generous deedsthat stir the pulses, and exalt and augment the nobility of the nationday by day from the teeming columns of ten thousand newspapers, and notfrom the drowsy pulpit. 

All that is great and good in our particular civilization came straightfrom the hand of Jesus Christ, and many creatures, and of divers sorts, were doubtless appointed to disseminate it; and let us believe that thisseed and the result are the main thing, and not the cut of the sower'sgarment; and that whosoever, in his way and according to his opportunity, sows the one and produces the other, has done high service and worthy. And further, let us try with all our strength to believe that wheneverold simple-hearted George Holland sowed this seed, and reared his crop ofbroader charities and better impulses in men's hearts, it was just asacceptable before the Throne as if the seed had been scattered in vapidplatitudes from the pulpit of the ineffable Sabine himself. 

Am I saying that the pulpit does not do its share toward disseminatingthe marrow, the meat of the gospel of Christ? (For we are not talking ofceremonies and wire-drawn creeds now, but the living heart and soul ofwhat is pretty often only a specter. )

No, I am not saying that. The pulpit teaches assemblages of people twicea week nearly two hours altogether--and does what it can in that time. The theater teaches large audiences seven times a week--28 or 30 hoursaltogether--and the novels and newspapers plead, and argue, andillustrate, stir, move, thrill, thunder, urge, persuade, and supplicate, at the feet of millions and millions of people every single day, and allday long and far into the night; and so these vast agencies tillnine-tenths of the vineyard, and the pulpit tills the other tenth. Yetnow and then some complacent blind idiot says, "You unanointed are coarseclay and useless; you are not as we, the regenerators of the world; go, bury yourselves elsewhere, for we cannot take the responsibility ofrecommending idlers and sinners to the yearning mercy of Heaven. " Howdoes a soul like that stay in a carcass without getting mixed with thesecretions and sweated out through the pores? Think of this insectcondemning the whole theatrical service as a disseminator of bad moralsbecause it has Black Crooks in it; forgetting that if that weresufficient ground people would condemn the pulpit because it had Crooksand Kallochs and Sabines in it!

No, I am not trying to rob the pulpit of any atom of its full share andcredit in the work of disseminating the meat and marrow of the gospel ofChrist; but I am trying to get a moment's hearing for worthy agencies inthe same work, that with overwrought modesty seldom or never claim arecognition of their great services. I am aware that the pulpit does itsexcellent one-tenth (and credits itself with it now and then, though mostof the time a press of business causes it to forget it); I am aware thatin its honest and well-meaning way it bores the people with uninflammabletruisms about doing good; bores them with correct compositions oncharity; bores them, chloroforms them, stupefies them with argumentativemercy without a flaw in the grammar or an emotion which the ministercould put in in the right place if he turned his back and took his fingeroff the manuscript. And in doing these things the pulpit is doing itsduty, and let us believe that it is likewise doing its best, and doing itin the most harmless and respectable way. And so I have said, and shallkeep on saying, let us give the pulpit its full share of credit inelevating and ennobling the people; but when a pulpit takes to itselfauthority to pass judgment upon the work and worth of just as legitimatean instrument of God as itself, who spent a long life preaching from thestage the selfsame gospel without the alteration of a single sentiment ora single axiom of right, it is fair and just that somebody who believesthat actors were made for a high and good purpose, and that theyaccomplish the object of their creation and accomplish it well, shouldprotest. And having protested, it is also fair and just--being driven toit, as it were--to whisper to the Sabine pattern of clergyman, under thebreath, a simple, instructive truth, and say, "Ministers are not the onlyservants of God upon earth, nor his most efficient ones, either, by avery, very long distance!" Sensible ministers already know this, and itmay do the other kind good to find it out. 

But to cease teaching and go back to the beginning again, was it notpitiable--that spectacle? Honored and honorable old George Holland, whose theatrical ministry had for fifty years softened hard hearts, bredgenerosity in cold ones, kindled emotion in dead ones, uplifted baseones, broadened bigoted ones, and made many and many a stricken one gladand filled it brimful of gratitude, figuratively spit upon in hisunoffending coffin by this crawling, slimy, sanctimonious, self-righteousreptile!

APPENDIX K

A SUBSTITUTE FOR RULOFF HAVE WE A SIDNEY CARTON AMONG US?

(See Chapter lxxxii)

To EDITOR of 'Tribune'. 

SIR, --I believe in capital punishment. I believe that when a murder hasbeen done it should be answered for with blood. I have all my life beentaught to feel this way, and the fetters of education are strong. Thefact that the death--law is rendered almost inoperative by its veryseverity does not alter my belief in its righteousness. The fact that inEngland the proportion of executions to condemnations is one to sixteen, and in this country only one to twenty-two, and in France only one tothirty-eight, does not shake my steadfast confidence in the propriety ofretaining the death-penalty. It is better to hang one murderer insixteen, twenty-two, thirty-eight than not to hang any at all. 

Feeling as I do, I am not sorry that Ruloff is to be hanged, but I amsincerely sorry that he himself has made it necessary that his vastcapabilities for usefulness should be lost to the world. In this, mineand the public's is a common regret. For it is plain that in the personof Ruloff one of the most marvelous of intellects that any age hasproduced is about to be sacrificed, and that, too, while half the mysteryof its strange powers is yet a secret. Here is a man who has neverentered the doors of a college or a university, and yet by the sheermight of his innate gifts has made himself such a colossus in abstruselearning that the ablest of our scholars are but pigmies in his presence. By the evidence of Professor Mather, Mr. Surbridge, Mr. Richmond, andother men qualified to testify, this man is as familiar with the broaddomain of philology as common men are with the passing events of the day. His memory has such a limitless grasp that he is able to quote sentenceafter sentence, paragraph after paragraph, chapter after chapter, from agnarled and knotty ancient literature that ordinary scholars are capableof achieving little more than a bowing acquaintance with. But his memoryis the least of his great endowments. By the testimony of the gentlemenabove referred to he is able to critically analyze the works of the oldmasters of literature, and while pointing out the beauties of theoriginals with a pure and discriminating taste is as quick to detect thedefects of the accepted translations; and in the latter case, ifexceptions be taken to his judgment, he straightway opens up the quarriesof his exhaustless knowledge, and builds a very Chinese wall of evidencearound his position. Every learned man who enters Ruloff's presenceleaves it amazed and confounded by his prodigious capabilities andattainments. One scholar said he did not believe that in matters ofsubtle analysis, vast knowledge in his peculiar field of research, comprehensive grasp of subject, and serene kingship over its limitlessand bewildering details, any land or any era of modern times had givenbirth to Ruloff's intellectual equal. What miracles this murderer mighthave wrought, and what luster he might have shed upon his country, if hehad not put a forfeit upon his life so foolishly! But what if the lawcould be satisfied, and the gifted criminal still be saved. If a life beoffered up on the gallows to atone for the murder Ruloff did, will thatsuffice? If so, give me the proofs, for in all earnestness and truth Iaver that in such a case I will instantly bring forward a man who, in theinterests of learning and science, will take Ruloff's crime upon himself, and submit to be hanged in Ruloff's place. I can, and will do thisthing; and I propose this matter, and make this offer in good faith. Youknow me, and know my address. SAMUEL LANGHORNE. April 29, 1871. 

APPENDIX L

ABOUT LONDON

ADDRESS AT A DINNER GIVEN BY THE SAVAGE CLUB, LONDON, SEPTEMBER 28, 1872. 

(See Chapter lxxxvii)

Reported by Moncure D. Conway in the Cincinnati Commercial

It affords me sincere pleasure to meet this distinguished club, a clubwhich has extended its hospitalities and its cordial welcome to so manyof my countrymen. I hope [and here the speaker's voice became low andfluttering] you will excuse these clothes. I am going to the theater;that will explain these clothes. I have other clothes than these. Judging human nature by what I have seen of it, I suppose that thecustomary thing for a stranger to do when he stands here is to make a punon the name of this club, under the impression, of course, that he is thefirst man that that idea has occurred to. It is a credit to our humannature, not a blemish upon it; for it shows that underlying all ourdepravity (and God knows and you know we are depraved enough) and all oursophistication, and untarnished by them, there is a sweet germ ofinnocence and simplicity still. When a stranger says to me, with a glowof inspiration in his eye, some gentle, innocuous little thing about"Twain and one flesh" and all that sort of thing, I don't try to crushthat man into the earth--no. I feel like saying, "Let me take you by thehand, sir; let me embrace you; I have not heard that pun for weeks. " Wewill deal in palpable puns. We will call parties named King "yourMajesty" and we will say to the Smiths that we think we have heard thatname before somewhere. Such is human nature. We cannot alter this. Itis God that made us so for some good and wise purpose. Let us notrepine. But though I may seem strange, may seem eccentric, I mean torefrain from punning upon the name of this club, though I could make avery good one if I had time to think about it--a week. 

I cannot express to you what entire enjoyment I find in this first visitto this prodigious metropolis of yours. Its wonders seem to me to belimitless. I go about as in a dream--as in a realm of enchantment--wheremany things are rare and beautiful, and all things are strange andmarvelous. Hour after hour I stand--I stand spellbound, as it were-andgaze upon the statuary in Leicester Square. [Leicester Square being ahorrible chaos, with the relic of an equestrian statue in the center, theking being headless and limbless, and the horse in little bettercondition. ] I visit the mortuary effigies of noble old Henry VIII. , andJudge Jeffreys, and the preserved gorilla, and try to make up my mindwhich of my ancestors I admire the most. I go to that matchless HydePark and drive all around it, and then I start to enter it at the MarbleArch--and am induced to "change my mind. " [Cabs are not permitted inHyde Park--nothing less aristocratic than a private carriage. ] It is agreat benefaction--is Hyde Park. There, in his hansom cab, the invalidcan go--the poor, sad child of misfortune--and insert his nose betweenthe railings, and breathe the pure, health-giving air of the country andof heaven. And if he is a swell invalid who isn't obliged to depend uponparks for his country air he can drive inside--if he owns his vehicle. Idrive round and round Hyde Park and the more I see of the edges of it themore grateful I am that the margin is extensive. 

And I have been to the Zoological Gardens. What a wonderful place thatis! I have never seen such a curious and interesting variety ofwild-animals in any garden before--except Mabille. I never believedbefore there were so many different kinds of animals in the world as youcan find there--and I don't believe it yet. I have been to the BritishMuseum. I would advise you to drop in there some time when you havenothing to do for--five minutes--if you have never been there. It seemsto me the noblest monument this nation has, yet erected to her greatness. I say to her, our greatness--as a nation. True, she has built othermonuments, and stately ones, as well; but these she has uplifted in honorof two or three colossal demigods who have stalked across the world'sstage, destroying tyrants and delivering nations, and whose prodigieswill still live in the memories of men ages after their monuments shallhave crumbled to dust--I refer to the Wellington and Nelson monuments, and--the Albert memorial. [Sarcasm. The Albert memorial is the finestmonument in the world, and celebrates the existence of as commonplace aperson as good luck ever lifted out of obscurity. ]

The Library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding. I haveread there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it. I reverethat library. It is the author's friend. I don't care how mean a bookis, it always takes one copy. [A copy of every book printed in GreatBritain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much complainedof by publishers. ] And then every day that author goes there to gaze atthat book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work. And what atouching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor, carewornclergymen gathered together in that vast reading-room cabbaging sermonsfor Sunday! You will pardon my referring to these things. Everything inthis monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from talking, even atthe risk of being instructive. People here seem always to expressdistances by parables. To a stranger it is just a little confusing to beso parabolic--so to speak. I collar a citizen, and I think I am going toget some valuable information out of him. I ask him how far it is toBirmingham, and he says it is twenty-one shillings and sixpence. Now weknow that doesn't help a man who is trying to learn. I find myselfdown-town somewhere, and I want to get some sort of idea where Iam--being usually lost when alone--and I stop a citizen and say, "How faris it to Charing Cross?" "Shilling fare in a cab, " and off he goes. Isuppose if I were to ask a Londoner how far it is from the sublime to theridiculous he would try to express it in a coin. But I am trespassingupon your time with these geological statistics and historicalreflections. I will not longer keep you from your orgies. 'Tis a realpleasure for me to be here, and I thank you for it. The name of theSavage Club is associated in my mind with the kindly interest and thefriendly offices which you lavished upon an old friend of mine who cameamong you a stranger, and you opened your English hearts to him and gavehim a welcome and a home--Artemus Ward. Asking that you will join me, Igive you his Memory. 

APPENDIX M

LETTER WRITTEN TO MRS. CLEMENS FROM BOSTON, NOVEMBER, 1874, PROPHESYING AMONARCHY IN SIXTY-ONE YEARS. 

(See Chapter xcvii)

 BOSTON, November 16, 1935. 

DEAR LIVY, --You observe I still call this beloved old place by the nameit had when I was young. Limerick! It is enough to make a body sick. 

The gentlemen-in-waiting stare to see me sit here telegraphing thisletter to you, and no doubt they are smiling in their sleeves. But letthem! The slow old fashions are good enough for me, thank God, and Iwill none other. When I see one of these modern fools sit absorbed, holding the end of a telegraph wire in his hand, and reflect that athousand miles away there is another fool hitched to the other end of it, it makes me frantic with rage; and then I am more implacably fixed andresolved than ever to continue taking twenty minutes to telegraph youwhat I might communicate in ten seconds by the new way if I would sodebase myself. And when I see a whole silent, solemn drawing-room fullof idiots sitting with their hands on each other's foreheads "communing"I tug the white hairs from my head and curse till my asthma brings me theblessed relief of suffocation. In our old day such a gathering talkedpure drivel and "rot, " mostly, but better that, a thousand times, thanthese dreary conversational funerals that oppress our spirits in this madgeneration. 

It is sixty years since I was here before. I walked hither then with myprecious old friend. It seems incredible now that we did it in two days, but such is my recollection. I no longer mention that we walked back ina single day, it makes me so furious to see doubt in the face of thehearer. Men were men in those old times. Think of one of the puerileorganisms in this effeminate age attempting such a feat. 

My air-ship was delayed by a collision with a fellow from China loadedwith the usual cargo of jabbering, copper-colored missionaries, and so Iwas nearly an hour on my journey. But by the goodness of God thirteen ofthe missionaries were crippled and several killed, so I was content tolose the time. I love to lose time anyway because it brings soothingreminiscences of the creeping railroad days of old, now lost to usforever. 

Our game was neatly played, and successfully. None expected us, ofcourse. You should have seen the guards at the ducal palace stare when Isaid, "Announce his Grace the Archbishop of Dublin and the RightHonorable the Earl of Hartford. " Arrived within, we were all eyes to seethe Duke of Cambridge and his Duchess, wondering if we might remembertheir faces and they ours. In a moment they came tottering in; he, bentand withered and bald; she, blooming with wholesome old age. He peeredthrough his glasses a moment, then screeched in a reedy voice, "Come tomy arms! Away with titles--I'll know ye by no names but Twain andTwichell!" Then fell he on our necks and jammed his trumpet in his ear, the which we filled with shoutings to this effect: "God bless you, oldHowells, what is left of you!"

We talked late that night--none of your silent idiot "communings" for us--of the olden time. We rolled a stream of ancient anecdotes over ourtongues and drank till the Lord Archbishop grew so mellow in the mellowpast that Dublin ceased to be Dublin to him, and resumed its sweeter, forgotten name of New York. In truth he almost got back into his ancientreligion, too, good Jesuit as he has always been since O'Mulligan theFirst established that faith in the empire. 

And we canvassed everybody. Bailey Aldrich, Marquis of Ponkapog, camein, got nobly drunk, and told us all about how poor Osgood lost hisearldom and was hanged for conspiring against the second Emperor; but hedidn't mention how near he himself came to being hanged, too, forengaging in the same enterprise. He was as chaffy as he was sixty yearsago, too, and swore the Archbishop and I never walked to Boston; butthere was never a day that Ponkapog wouldn't lie, so be it by the graceof God he got the opportunity. 

The Lord High Admiral came in, a hale gentleman close upon seventy andbronzed by the suns and storms of many climes and scarred by the woundsgot in many battles, and I told him how I had seen him sit in ahigh-chair and eat fruit and cakes and answer to the name of Johnny. Hisgranddaughter (the eldest) is but lately married to the youngest of theGrand Dukes, and so who knows but a day may come when the blood of theHowellses may reign in the land? I must not forget to say, while I thinkof it, that your new false teeth are done, my dear, and your wig. Keepyour head well bundled with a shawl till the latter comes, and so cheatyour persecuting neuralgias and rheumatisms. Would you believe it?--theDuchess of Cambridge is deafer than you--deafer than her husband. Theycall her to breakfast with a salvo of artillery; and usually when itthunders she looks up expectantly and says, "Come in. " But she hasbecome subdued and gentle with age and never destroys the furniture now, except when uncommonly vexed. God knows, my dear, it would be a happything if you and old Lady Harmony would imitate this spirit. But indeedthe older you grow the less secure becomes the furniture. When I throwchairs through the window I have sufficient reason to back it. But you--you are but a creature of passion. 

The monument to the author of 'Gloverson and His Silent Partners' isfinished. --[Ralph Keeler. See chap. Lxxxiii. ]--It is the stateliest andthe costliest ever erected to the memory of any man. This noble classichas now been translated into all the languages of the earth and is adoredby all nations and known to all creatures. Yet I have conversed asfamiliarly with the author of it as I do with my own great-grandchildren. 

I wish you could see old Cambridge and Ponkapog. I love them as dearlyas ever, but privately, my dear, they are not much improvement on idiots. It is melancholy to hear them jabber over the same pointless anecdotesthree and four times of an evening, forgetting that they had jabberedthem over three or four times the evening before. Ponkapog still writespoetry, but the old-time fire has mostly gone out of it. Perhaps hisbest effort of late years is this:

 O soul, soul, soul of mine! Soul, soul, soul of throe! Thy soul, my soul, two souls entwine, And sing thy lauds in crystal wine!

This he goes about repeating to everybody, daily and nightly, insomuchthat he is become a sore affliction to all that know him. 

But I must desist. There are draughts here everywhere and my gout issomething frightful. My left foot hath resemblance to a snuff-bladder. God be with you. HARTFORD. 

These to Lady Hartford, in the earldom of Hartford, in the upper portionof the city of Dublin. 

APPENDIX N

MARK TWAIN AND COPYRIGHT

I

PETITION

Concerning Copyright (1875) (See Chapter cii)

TO THE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE UNITED STATES INCONGRESS ASSEMBLED. 

We, your petitioners, do respectfully represent as follows, viz. : Thatjustice, plain and simple, is a thing which right-feeling men stand readyat all times to accord to brothers and strangers alike. All such menwill concede that it is but plain, simple justice that American authorsshould be protected by copyright in Europe; also, that European authorsshould be protected by copyright here. 

Both divisions of this proposition being true, it behooves our governmentto concern itself with that division of it which comes peculiarly withinits province--viz. , the latter moiety--and to grant to foreign authorswith all convenient despatch a full and effective copyright in Americawithout marring the grace of the act by stopping to inquire whether asimilar justice will be done our own authors by foreign governments. Ifit were even known that those governments would not extend this justiceto us it would still not justify us in withholding this manifest rightfrom their authors. If a thing is right it ought to be done--the thingcalled "expediency" or "policy" has no concern with such a matter. Andwe desire to repeat, with all respect, that it is not a grace or aprivilege we ask for our foreign brethren, but a right--a right receivedfrom God, and only denied them by man. We hold no ownership in theseauthors, and when we take their work from them, as at present, withouttheir consent, it is robbery. The fact that the handiwork of our ownauthors is seized in the same way in foreign lands neither excuses normitigates our sin. 

With your permission we will say here, over our signatures, and earnestlyand sincerely, that we very greatly desire that you shall grant a fullcopyright to foreign authors (the copyright fee for the entry in theoffice of the Congressional Librarian to be the same as we payourselves), and we also as greatly desire that this grant shall be madewithout a single hampering stipulation that American authors shallreceive in turn an advantage of any kind from foreign governments. 

Since no author who was applied to hesitated for a moment to append hissignature to this petition we are satisfied that if time had permitted wecould have procured the signature of every writer in the United States, great and small, obscure or famous. As it is, the list comprises thenames of about all our writers whose works have at present a Europeanmarket, and who are therefore chiefly concerned in this matter. 

No objection to our proposition can come from any reputable publisheramong us--or does come from such a quarter, as the appended signatures ofour greatest publishing firms will attest. A European copyright herewould be a manifest advantage to them. As the matter stands now themoment they have thoroughly advertised a desirable foreign book, and thusat great expense aroused public interest in it, some small-spiritedspeculator (who has lain still in his kennel and spent nothing) rushesthe same book on the market and robs the respectable publisher of halfthe gains. 

Then, since neither our authors nor the decent among our publishing firmswill object to granting an American copyright to foreign authors andartists, who can there be to object? Surely nobody whose protest isentitled to any weight. 

Trusting in the righteousness of our cause we, your petitioners, willever pray, etc. With great respect, Your Ob't Serv'ts. 

CIRCULAR TO AMERICAN AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

DEAR SIR, --We believe that you will recognize the justice and therighteousness of the thing we desire to accomplish through theaccompanying petition. And we believe that you will be willing that ourcountry shall be the first in the world to grant to all authors alike thefree exercise of their manifest right to do as they please with the fruitof their own labor without inquiring what flag they live under. If thesentiments of the petition meet your views, will you do us the favor tosign it and forward it by post at your earliest convenience to oursecretary? }CommitteeAddress -------------------Secretary of the Committee. 

II

Communications supposed to have been written by the Tsar of Russia andthe Sultan of Turkey to Mark Twain on the subject of InternationalCopyright, about 1890. 

 ST. PETERSBURG, February. 

COL. MARK TWAIN, Washington. 

Your cablegram received. It should have been transmitted through myminister, but let that pass. I am opposed to international copyright. Atpresent American literature is harmless here because we doctor it in sucha way as to make it approve the various beneficent devices which we useto keep our people favorable to fetters as jewelry and pleased withSiberia as a summer resort. But your bill would spoil this. We shouldbe obliged to let you say your say in your own way. 'Voila'! my empirewould be a republic in five years and I should be sampling Siberiamyself. 

If you should run across Mr. Kennan--[George Kennan, who had graphicallypictured the fearful conditions of Siberian exile. ]--please ask him tocome over and give some readings. I will take good care of him. 

 ALEXANDER III. 

144--Collect. 

 CONSTANTINOPLE, February. 

DR. MARK TWAIN, Washington. 

Great Scott, no! By the beard of the Prophet, no! How can you ask sucha thing of me? I am a man of family. I cannot take chances, like otherpeople. I cannot let a literature come in here which teaches that aman's wife is as good as the man himself. Such a doctrine cannot do anyparticular harm, of course, where the man has only one wife, for then itis a dead-level between them, and there is no humiliating inequality, andno resulting disorder; but you take an extremely married person, like me, and go to teaching that his wife is 964 times as good as he is, andwhat's hell to that harem, dear friend? I never saw such a fool as you. Do not mind that expression; I already regret it, and would replace itwith a softer one if I could do it without debauching the truth. Ibeseech you, do not pass that bill. Roberts College is quite all theAmerican product we can stand just now. On top of that, do you want tosend us a flood of freedom-shrieking literature which we can't edit thepoison out of, but must let it go among our people just as it is? Myfriend, we should be a republic inside of ten years. 

 ABDUL II. 

III

MARK TWAIN'S LAST SUGGESTION ON COPYRIGHT. 

A MEMORIAL RESPECTFULLY TENDERED TO THE MEMBERS OF THE SENATE AND THEHOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES. 

(Prepared early in 1909 at the suggestion of Mr. Champ Clack but notoffered. A bill adding fourteen years to the copyright period was passedabout this time. )

The Policy of Congress:--Nineteen or twenty years ago James RussellLowell, George Haven Putnam, and the under signed appeared before theSenate Committee on Patents in the interest of Copyright. Up to thattime, as explained by Senator Platt, of Connecticut, the policy ofCongress had been to limit the life of a copyright by a term of years, with one definite end in view, and only one--to wit, that after an authorhad been permitted to enjoy for a reasonable length of time the incomefrom literary property created by his hand and brain the property shouldthen be transferred "to the public" as a free gift. That is still thepolicy of Congress to-day. 

The Purpose in View:--The purpose in view was clear: to so reduce theprice of the book as to bring it within the reach of all purses, andspread it among the millions who had not been able to buy it while it wasstill under the protection of copyright. 

The Purpose Defeated:--This purpose has always been defeated. That is tosay, that while the death of a copyright has sometimes reduced the priceof a book by a half for a while, and in some cases by even more, it hasnever reduced it vastly, nor accomplished any reduction that waspermanent and secure. 

The Reason:--The reason is simple: Congress has never made a reductioncompulsory. Congress was convinced that the removal of the author'sroyalty and the book's consequent (or at least probable) dispersal amongseveral competing publishers would make the book cheap by force of thecompetition. It was an error. It has not turned out so. The reason is, a publisher cannot find profit in an exceedingly cheap edition if he mustdivide the market with competitors. 

Proposed Remedy:--The natural remedy would seem to be, amended lawrequiring the issue of cheap editions. 

Copyright Extension:--I think the remedy could be accomplished in thefollowing way, without injury to author or publisher, and with extremeadvantage to the public: by an amendment to the existing law providing asfollows--to wit: that at any time between the beginning of a book'sforty-first year and the ending of its forty-second the owner of thecopyright may extend its life thirty years by issuing and placing on salean edition of the book at one-tenth the price of the cheapest editionhitherto issued at any time during the ten immediately preceding years. This extension to lapse and become null and void if at any time duringthe thirty years he shall fail during the space of three consecutivemonths to furnish the ten per cent. Book upon demand of any person orpersons desiring to buy it. 

The Result:--The result would be that no American classic enjoying thethirty-year extension would ever be out of the reach of any Americanpurse, let its uncompulsory price be what it might. He would get atwo-dollar book for 20 cents, and he could get none but copyright-expiredclassics at any such rate. 

The Final Result:--At the end of the thirty-year extension the copyrightwould again die, and the price would again advance. This by a naturallaw, the excessively cheap edition no longer carrying with it anadvantage to any publisher. 

Reconstruction of The Present Law Not Necessary:--A clause of thesuggested amendment could read about as follows, and would obviate thenecessity of taking the present law to pieces and building it over again:

 All books and all articles enjoying forty-two years copyright-life under the present law shall be admitted to the privilege of the thirty-year extension upon complying with the condition requiring the producing and placing upon permanent sale of one grade or form of said book or article at a price of 90 per cent. Below the cheapest rate at which said book or article had been placed upon the market at any time during the immediately preceding ten years. 

 REMARKS

If the suggested amendment shall meet with the favor of the presentCongress and become law--and I hope it will--I shall have personalexperience of its effects very soon. Next year, in fact, in the personof my first book, 'The Innocents Abroad'. For its forty-two-yearcopyright-life will then cease and its thirty-year extension begin--andwith the latter the permanent low-rate edition. At present the highestprice of the book is eight dollars, and its lowest price three dollarsper copy. Thus the permanent low rate will be thirty cents per copy. Asweeping reduction like this is what Congress from the beginning hasdesired to achieve, but has not been able to accomplish because noinducement was offered to publishers to run the risk. 

 Respectfully submitted, S. L. CLEMENS. 

(A full and interesting elucidation of Mark Twain's views on Copyrightmay be found in an article entitled "Concerning Copyright, " published inthe North American Review for January, 1905. )

APPENDIX O

(See Chapter cxiv)

 Address of Samuel L. Clemens (Mark Twain) from a report of the dinner given by the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly in honor of the Seventieth Anniversary of the Birth of John Greenleaf Whittier, at the Hotel Brunswick, Boston, December 17, 1877, as published in the Boston Evening Transcript, December 18, 1877. 

MR. CHAIRMAN, This is an occasion peculiarly meet for the digging up ofpleasant reminiscences concerning literary folk, therefore I will droplightly into history myself. Standing here on the shore of the Atlantic, and contemplating certain of its largest literary billows, I am remindedof a thing which happened to me thirteen years ago, when I had justsucceeded in stirring up a little Nevadian literary puddle myself, whosespume-flakes were beginning to blow thinly California-ward. I started aninspection tramp through the southern mines of California. I was callowand conceited, and I resolved to try the virtue of my 'nom de guerre'. Ivery soon had an opportunity. I knocked at a miner's lonely log cabin inthe foothills of the Sierras just at nightfall. It was snowing at thetime. A jaded, melancholy man of fifty, barefooted, opened the door tome. When he heard my 'nom de guerre' he looked more dejected thanbefore. He let me in-pretty reluctantly, I thought--and after thecustomary bacon and beans, black coffee and hot whisky, I took a pipe. This sorrowful man had not said three words up to this time. Now hespoke up and said, in the voice of one who is secretly suffering, "You'rethe fourth--I'm going to move. " "The fourth what?" said I. "The fourthlittery man that has been here in twenty-four hours--I'm going to move. ""You don't tell me!" said I; "who were the others?" "Mr. Longfellow. Mr. Emerson, and Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes--consound the lot!"

You can easily believe I was interested. I supplicated--three hotwhiskies did the rest--and finally the melancholy miner began. Said he:

"They came here just at dark yesterday evening, and I let them in, ofcourse. Said they were going to the Yosemite. They were a rough lot, but that's nothing; everybody looks rough that travels afoot. Mr. Emersonwas a seedy little bit of a chap, red-headed. Mr. Holmes was as fat as aballoon; he weighed as much as three hundered, and had double chins allthe way down to his stomach. Mr. Longfellow was built like aprize-fighter. His head was cropped and bristly, like as if he had a wigmade of hair-brushes. His nose lay straight down in his face, like afinger with the end joint tilted up. They had been drinking, I could seethat. And what queer talk they used! Mr. Holmes inspected this cabin, then he took me by the buttonhole and says he:

 "'Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings, "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!"'

"Says I, 'I can't afford it, Mr. Holmes, and moreover I don't want to. 'Blamed if I liked it pretty well, either, coming from a stranger thatway. However, I started to get out my bacon and beans when Mr. Emersoncame and looked on awhile, and then he takes me aside by the buttonholeand says:

 "'Give me agates for my meat; Give me cantharids to eat; From air and ocean bring me foods, From all zones and altitudes. '

"Says I, 'Mr. Emerson, if you'll excuse me, this ain't no hotel. ' Yousee, it sort of riled me--I warn't used to the ways of Jittery swells. But I went on a-sweating over my work, and next comes Mr. Longfellow andbuttonholes me and interrupts me. Says he:

 "'Honor be to Mudjekeewis! You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis--'

"But I broke in, and says I, 'Beg your pardon, Mr. Longfellow, if you'llbe so kind as to hold your yawp for about five minutes and let me getthis grub ready, you'll do me proud. ' Well, sir, after they'd filled upI set out the jug. Mr. Holmes looks at it and then he fires up all of asudden and yells:

 "'Flash out a stream of blood-red wine! For I would drink to other days. '

"By George, I was getting kind of worked up. I don't deny it, I wasgetting kind of worked up. I turns to Mr. Holmes and says I, 'Lookyhere, my fat friend, I'm a-running this shanty, and if the court knowsherself you'll take whisky straight or you'll go dry. ' Them's the verywords I said to him. Now I don't want to sass such famous Litterypeople, but you see they kind of forced me. There ain't nothingonreasonable 'bout me. I don't mind a passel of guests a-treadin' on mytail three or four times, but when it comes to standing on it it'sdifferent, 'and if the court knows herself, ' I says, 'you'll take whiskystraight or you'll go dry. ' Well, between drinks they'd swell around thecabin and strike attitudes and spout; and pretty soon they got out agreasy old deck and went to playing euchre at ten cents a corner--ontrust. I began to notice some pretty suspicious things. Mr. Emersondealt, looked at his hand, shook his head, says:

 "'I am the doubter and the doubt--'

and calmly bunched the hands and went to shuffling for a new lay-out. Says he:

 "'They reckon ill who leave me out; They know not well the subtle ways I keep. I pass and deal again!'

Hang'd if he didn't go ahead and do it, too! Oh, he was a cool one!Well, in about a minute things were running pretty tight, but all of asudden I see by Mr. Emerson's eye he judged he had 'em. He had alreadycorralled two tricks and each of the others one. So now he kind of liftsa little in his chair and says, "'I tire of globes and aces! Too long the game is played!'

and down he fetched a right bower. Mr. Longfellow smiles as sweet as pieand says, "'Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught, '

and blamed if he didn't down with another right bower! Emerson claps hishand on his bowie, Longfellow claps his on his revolver, and I went undera bunk. There was going to be trouble; but that monstrous Holmes roseup, wobbling his double chins, and says he, 'Order, gentlemen; the firstman that draws I'll lay down on him and smother him!' All quiet on thePotomac, you bet!

"They were pretty how-come-you-so by now, and they begun to blow. Emersonsays, 'The noblest thing I ever wrote was "Barbara Frietchie. "' SaysLongfellow, 'It don't begin with my "Bigelow Papers. "' Says Holmes, 'My"Thanatopsis" lays over 'em both. ' They mighty near ended in a fight. Then they wished they had some more company, and Mr. Emerson pointed tome and says:

 "'Is yonder squalid peasant all That this proud nursery could breed?'

He was a-whetting his bowie on his boot--so I let it pass. Well, sir, next they took it into their heads that they would like some music; sothey made me stand up and sing, 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home' till Idropped--at thirteen minutes past four this morning. That's what I'vebeen through, my friend. When I woke at seven they were leaving, thankgoodness, and Mr. Longfellow had my only boots on and his'n under hisarm. Says I, 'Hold on there, Evangeline, what are you going to do withthem?' He says, 'Going to make tracks with 'em, because--

 "'Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime; And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. '

"As I said, Mr. Twain, you are the fourth in twenty-four hours and I'mgoing to move; I ain't suited to a Littery atmosphere. "

I said to the miner, "Why, my dear sir, these were not the gracioussingers to whom we and the world pay loving reverence and homage; thesewere impostors. "

The miner investigated me with a calm eye for a while; then said he, "Ah!impostors, were they? Are you?"

I did not pursue the subject, and since then I have not traveled on my'nom de guerre' enough to hurt. Such was the reminiscence I was moved tocontribute, Mr. Chairman. In my enthusiasm I may have exaggerated thedetails a little, but you will easily forgive me that fault, since Ibelieve it is the first time I have ever deflected from perpendicularfact on an occasion like this. 

APPENDIX P

THE ADAM MONUMENT PETITION

(See Chapter cxxxiv)

TO THE HONORABLE SENATE AND HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE UNITED STATESIN CONGRESS ASSEMBLED. 

WHEREAS, A number of citizens of the city of Elmira in the State of NewYork having covenanted among themselves to erect in that city a monumentin memory of Adam, the father of mankind, being moved thereto by asentiment of love and duty, and these having appointed the undersigned tocommunicate with your honorable body, we beg leave to lay before you thefollowing facts and append to the same our humble petition. 

1. As far as is known no monument has ever been raised in any part ofthe world to commemorate the services rendered to our race by this greatman, whilst many men of far less note and worship have been renderedimmortal by means of stately and indestructible memorials. 

2. The common father of mankind has been suffered to lie in entireneglect, although even the Father of our Country has now, and has had formany years, a monument in course of construction. 

3. No right-feeling human being can desire to see this neglectcontinued, but all just men, even to the farthest regions of the globe, should and will rejoice to know that he to whom we owe existence is aboutto have reverent and fitting recognition of his works at the hands of thepeople of Elmira. His labors were not in behalf of one locality, but forthe extension of humanity at large and the blessings which go therewith;hence all races and all colors and all religions are interested in seeingthat his name and fame shall be placed beyond the reach of the blight ofoblivion by a permanent and suitable monument. 

4. It will be to the imperishable credit of the United States if thismonument shall be set up within her borders; moreover, it will be apeculiar grace to the beneficiary if this testimonial of affection andgratitude shall be the gift of the youngest of the nations that havesprung from his loins after 6, 000 years of unappreciation on the part ofits elders. 

5. The idea of this sacred enterprise having originated in the city ofElmira, she will be always grateful if the general government shallencourage her in the good work by securing to her a certain advantagethrough the exercise of its great authority. 

Therefore, Your petitioners beg that your honorable body will be pleasedto issue a decree restricting to Elmira the right to build a monument toAdam and inflicting a heavy penalty upon any other community within theUnited States that shall propose or attempt to erect a monument or othermemorial to the said Adam, and to this end we will ever pray. 

NAMES: (100 signatures)

APPENDIX Q

GENERAL GRANT'S GRAMMAR

(Written in 1886. Delivered at an Army and Navy Club dinner in New YorkCity)

Lately a great and honored author, Matthew Arnold, has been finding faultwith General Grant's English. That would be fair enough, maybe, if theexamples of imperfect English averaged more instances to the page inGeneral Grant's book than they do in Arnold's criticism on the book--butthey do not. It would be fair enough, maybe, if such instances werecommoner in General Grant's book than they are in the works of theaverage standard author--but they are not. In fact, General Grant'sderelictions in the matter of grammar and construction are not morefrequent than such derelictions in the works of a majority of theprofessional authors of our time, and of all previous times--authors asexclusively and painstakingly trained to the literary trade as wasGeneral Grant to the trade of war. This is not a random statement: it isa fact, and easily demonstrable. I have a book at home called ModernEnglish Literature: Its Blemishes and Defects, by Henry H. Breen, acountryman of Mr. Arnold. In it I find examples of bad grammar andslovenly English from the pens of Sydney Smith, Sheridan, Hallam, Whately, Carlyle, Disraeli, Allison, Junius, Blair, Macaulay, Shakespeare, Milton, Gibbon, Southey, Lamb, Landor, Smollett, Walpole, Walker (of the dictionary), Christopher North, Kirk White, BenjaminFranklin, Sir Walter Scott, and Mr. Lindley Murray (who made thegrammar). 

In Mr. Arnold's criticism on General Grant's book we find two grammaticalcrimes and more than several examples of very crude and slovenly English, enough of them to entitle him to a lofty place in the illustrious list ofdelinquents just named. 

The following passage all by itself ought to elect him: "Meade suggested to Grant that he might wish to have immediately under him Sherman, who had been serving with Grant in the West. He begged him not to hesitate if he thought it for the good of the service. Grant assured him that he had not thought of moving him, and in his memoirs, after relating what had passed, he adds, etc. "

To read that passage a couple of times would make a man dizzy; to read itfour times would make him drunk. 

Mr. Breen makes this discriminating remark: "To suppose that because aman is a poet or a historian he must be correct in his grammar is tosuppose that an architect must be a joiner, or a physician a compounderof medicine. "

People may hunt out what microscopic motes they please, but, after all, the fact remains, and cannot be dislodged, that General Grant's book is agreat and, in its peculiar department, a unique and unapproachableliterary masterpiece. In their line there is no higher literature thanthose modest, simple memoirs. Their style is at least flawless and noman could improve upon it, and great books are weighed and measured bytheir style and matter, and not by the trimmings and shadings of theirgrammar. 

There is that about the sun which makes us forget his spots, and when wethink of General Grant our pulses quicken and his grammar vanishes; weonly remember that this is the simple soldier who, all untaught of thesilken phrase-makers, linked words together with an art surpassing theart of the schools and put into them a something which will still bringto American ears, as long as America shall last, the roll of his vanisheddrums and the tread of his marching hosts. What do we care for grammarwhen we think of those thunderous phrases, "Unconditional and immediatesurrender, " "I propose to move immediately upon your works, " "I proposeto fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. " Mr. Arnold woulddoubtless claim that that last phrase is not strictly grammatical, andyet it did certainly wake up this nation as a hundred million tons ofA-number-one fourth-proof, hard-boiled, hide-bound grammar from anothermouth could not have done. And finally we have that gentler phrase, thatone which shows you another true side of the man, shows you that in hissoldier heart there was room for other than gory war mottoes and in histongue the gift to fitly phrase them: "Let us have peace. "

APPENDIX R

PARTY ALLEGIANCE. 

BEING A PORTION OF A PAPER ON "CONSISTENCY, " READ BEFORE THE MONDAYEVENING CLUB IN 1887. 

(See Chapter clxiii)

. . . I have referred to the fact that when a man retires from hispolitical party he is a traitor--that he is so pronounced in plainlanguage. That is bold; so bold as to deceive many into the fancy thatit is true. Desertion, treason--these are the terms applied. Theirmilitary form reveals the thought in the man's mind who uses them: to hima political party is an army. Well, is it? Are the two thingsidentical? Do they even resemble each other? Necessarily a politicalparty is not an army of conscripts, for they are in the ranks bycompulsion. Then it must be a regular army or an army of volunteers. Isit a regular army? No, for these enlist for a specified andwell-understood term, and can retire without reproach when the term isup. Is it an army of volunteers who have enlisted for the war, and mayrighteously be shot if they leave before the war is finished? No, it isnot even an army in that sense. Those fine military terms arehigh-sounding, empty lies, and are no more rationally applicable to apolitical party than they would be to an oyster-bed. The volunteersoldier comes to the recruiting office and strips himself and proves thathe is so many feet high, and has sufficiently good teeth, and no fingersgone, and is sufficiently sound in body generally; he is accepted; butnot until he has sworn a deep oath or made other solemn form of promiseto march under, that flag until that war is done or his term ofenlistment completed. What is the process when a voter joins a party?Must he prove that he is sound in any way, mind or body? Must he provethat he knows anything--is capable of anything--whatever? Does he takean oath or make a promise of any sort?--or doesn't he leave himselfentirely free? If he were informed by the political boss that if hejoin, it must be forever; that he must be that party's chattel and wearits brass collar the rest of his days--would not that insult him? Itgoes without saying. He would say some rude, unprintable thing, and turnhis back on that preposterous organization. But the political boss putsno conditions upon him at all; and this volunteer makes no promises, enlists for no stated term. He has in no sense become a part of an army;he is in no way restrained of his freedom. Yet he will presently findthat his bosses and his newspapers have assumed just the reverse of that:that they have blandly arrogated to themselves an ironclad militaryauthority over him; and within twelve months, if he is an average man, hewill have surrendered his liberty, and will actually be silly enough tobelieve that he cannot leave that party, for any cause whatever, withoutbeing a shameful traitor, a deserter, a legitimately dishonored man. 

There you have the just measure of that freedom of conscience, freedom ofopinion, freedom of speech and action which we hear so much inflatedfoolishness about as being the precious possession of the republic. Whereas, in truth, the surest way for a man to make of himself a targetfor almost universal scorn, obloquy, slander, and insult is to stoptwaddling about these priceless independencies and attempt to exerciseone of them. If he is a preacher half his congregation will clamor forhis expulsion--and will expel him, except they find it will injure realestate in the neighborhood; if he is a doctor his own dead will turnagainst him. 

I repeat that the new party-member who supposed himself independent willpresently find that the party have somehow got a mortgage on his soul, and that within a year he will recognize the mortgage, deliver up hisliberty, and actually believe he cannot retire from that party from anymotive howsoever high and right in his own eyes without shame anddishonor. 

Is it possible for human wickedness to invent a doctrine more infernaland poisonous than this? Is there imaginable a baser servitude than itimposes? What slave is so degraded as the slave that is proud that he isa slave? What is the essential difference between a lifelong democratand any other kind of lifelong slave? Is it less humiliating to dance tothe lash of one master than another?

This infamous doctrine of allegiance to party plays directly into thehands of politicians of the baser sort--and doubtless for that it wasborrowed--or stolen--from the monarchial system. It enables them tofoist upon the country officials whom no self-respecting man would votefor if he could but come to understand that loyalty to himself is hisfirst and highest duty, not loyalty to any party name. 

Shall you say the best good of the country demands allegiance to party?Shall you also say that it demands that a man kick his truth and hisconscience into the gutter and become a mouthing lunatic besides? Oh no, you say; it does not demand that. But what if it produce that in spiteof you? There is no obligation upon a man to do things which he oughtnot to do when drunk, but most men will do them just the same; and so wehear no arguments about obligations in the matter--we only hear menwarned to avoid the habit of drinking; get rid of the thing that canbetray men into such things. 

This is a funny business all around. The same men who enthusiasticallypreach loyal consistency to church and party are always ready and willingand anxious to persuade a Chinaman or an Indian or a Kanaka to desert hischurch or a fellow-American to desert his party. The man who deserts tothem is all that is high and pure and beautiful--apparently; the man whodeserts from them is all that is foul and despicable. This isConsistency--with a capital C. 

With the daintiest and self-complacentest sarcasm the lifelong loyalistscoffs at the Independent--or as he calls him, with cutting irony, theMugwump; makes himself too killingly funny for anything in this worldabout him. But--the Mugwump can stand it, for there is a great historyat his back; stretching down the centuries, and he comes of a mightyancestry. He knows that in the whole history of the race of men nosingle great and high and beneficent thing was ever done for the soulsand bodies, the hearts and the brains of the children of this world, buta Mugwump started it and Mugwumps carried it to victory: And their namesare the stateliest in history: Washington, Garrison, Galileo, Luther, Christ. Loyalty to petrified opinions never yet broke a chain or freed ahuman soul in this world-end never will. 

APPENDIX S

ORIGINAL PREFACE FOR "A CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT"

(See Chapter clxxii)

My object has been to group together some of the most odious laws whichhave had vogue in the Christian countries within the past eight or tencenturies, and illustrate them by the incidents of a story. 

There was never a time when America applied the death-penalty to morethan fourteen crimes. But England, within the memory of men stillliving, had in her list of crimes 223 which were punishable by death! Andyet from the beginning of our existence down to a time within the memoryof babes England has distressed herself piteously over the ungentlenessof our Connecticut Blue Laws. Those Blue Laws should have been sparedEnglish criticism for two reasons:

1. They were so insipidly mild, by contrast with the bloody andatrocious laws of England of the same period, as to seem characterlessand colorless when one brings them into that awful presence. 

2. The Blue Laws never had any existence. They were the fancy-work ofan English clergyman; they were never a part of any statute-book. Andyet they could have been made to serve a useful and merciful purpose; ifthey had been injected into the English law the dilution would have givento the whole a less lurid aspect; or, to figure the effect in anotherway, they would have been coca mixed into vitriol. 

I have drawn no laws and no illustrations from the twin civilizations ofhell and Russia. To have entered into that atmosphere would havedefeated my purpose, which was to show a great and genuine progress inChristendom in these few later generations toward mercifulness--a wideand general relaxing of the grip of the law. Russia had to be left outbecause exile to Siberia remains, and in that single punishment isgathered together and concentrated all the bitter inventions of all theblack ages for the infliction of suffering upon human beings. Exile forlife from one's hearthstone and one's idols--this is rack, thumb-screw, the water-drop, fagot and stake, tearing asunder by horses, flayingalive--all these in one; and not compact into hours, but drawn out intoyears, each year a century, and the whole a mortal immortality of tortureand despair. While exile to Siberia remains one will be obliged to admitthat there is one country in Christendom where the punishments of all theages are still preserved and still inflicted, that there is one countryin Christendom where no advance has been made toward modifying themedieval penalties for offenses against society and the State. 

APPENDIX T

A TRIBUTE TO HENRY H. ROGERS

(See Chapter cc and earlier)

April 25, 1902. I owe more to Henry Rogers than to any other man whom Ihave known. He was born in Fairhaven, Connecticut, in 1839, and is myjunior by four years. He was graduated from the high school there in1853, when he was fourteen years old, and from that time forward heearned his own living, beginning at first as the bottom subordinate inthe village store with hard-work privileges and a low salary. When hewas twenty-four he went out to the newly discovered petroleum fields inPennsylvania and got work; then returned home, with enough money to paypassage, married a schoolmate, and took her to the oil regions. Heprospered, and by and by established the Standard Oil Trust with Mr. Rockefeller and others, and is still one of its managers and directors. 

In 1893 we fell together by accident one evening in the Murray HillHotel, and our friendship began on the spot and at once. Ever since thenhe has added my business affairs to his own and carried them through, andI have had no further trouble with them. Obstructions and perplexitieswhich would have driven me mad were simplicities to his master mind andfurnished him no difficulties. He released me from my entanglements withPaige and stopped that expensive outgo; when Charles L. Webster & Companyfailed he saved my copyrights for Mrs. Clemens when she would havesacrificed them to the creditors although they were in no way entitled tothem; he offered to lend me money wherewith to save the life of thatworthless firm; when I started lecturing around the world to make themoney to pay off the Webster debts he spent more than a year trying toreconcile the differences between Harper & Brothers and the AmericanPublishing Company and patch up a working-contract between them andsucceeded where any other man would have failed; as fast as I earnedmoney and sent it to him he banked it at interest and held onto it, refusing to pay any creditor until he could pay all of the 96 alike; whenI had earned enough to pay dollar for dollar he swept off theindebtedness and sent me the whole batch of complimentary letters whichthe creditors wrote in return; when I had earned $28, 500 more, $18, 500 ofwhich was in his hands, I wrote him from Vienna to put the latter intoFederal Steel and leave it there; he obeyed to the extent of $17, 500, butsold it in two months at $25, 000 profit, and said it would go ten pointshigher, but that it was his custom to "give the other man a chance" (andthat was a true word--there was never a truer one spoken). That was atthe end of '99 and beginning of 1900; and from that day to this he hascontinued to break up my bad schemes and put better ones in their place, to my great advantage. I do things which ought to try man's patience, but they never seem to try his; he always finds a colorable excuse forwhat I have done. His soul was born superhumanly sweet, and I do notthink anything can sour it. I have not known his equal among men forlovable qualities. But for his cool head and wise guidance I shouldnever have come out of the Webster difficulties on top; it was his goodsteering that enabled me to work out my salvation and pay a hundred centson the dollar--the most valuable service any man ever did me. 

His character is full of fine graces, but the finest is this: that he canload you down with crushing obligations and then so conduct himself thatyou never feel their weight. If he would only require something inreturn--but that is not in his nature; it would not occur to him. Withthe Harpers and the American Company at war those copyrights were worthbut little; he engineered a peace and made them valuable. He invests$100, 000 for me here, and in a few months returns a profit of $31, 000. Iinvest (in London and here) $66, 000 and must wait considerably forresults (in case there shall be any). I tell him about it and he findsno fault, utters not a sarcasm. He was born serene, patient, all-enduring, where a friend is concerned, and nothing can extinguishthat great quality in him. Such a man is entitled to the high gift ofhumor: he has it at its very best. He is not only the best friend I haveever had, but is the best man I have known. 

 S. L. CLEMENS. 

APPENDIX U

FROM MARK TWAIN'S LAST POEM

BEGUN AT RIVERDALE, NEW YORK. FINISHED AT YORK HARBOR, MAINE, AUGUST 18, 1902

(See Chapter ccxxiii)

(A bereft and demented mother speaks)

. . . O, I can see my darling yet: the little form In slip of flimsystuff all creamy white, Pink-belted waist with ample bows, Blue shoesscarce bigger than the house-cat's ears--Capering in delight and chokedwith glee. 

It was a summer afternoon; the hill Rose green above me and about, and inthe vale below The distant village slept, and all the world Was steepedin dreams. Upon me lay this peace, And I forgot my sorrow in its spell. And now My little maid passed by, and she Was deep in thought upon asolemn thing: A disobedience, and my reproof. Upon my face She must notlook until the day was done; For she was doing penance . . . She? O, it was I! What mother knows not that? And so she passed, I worshipingand longing . . . It was not wrong? You do not think me wrong? I didit for the best. Indeed I meant it so. 

She flits before me now: The peach-bloom of her gauzy crepe, The plaitedtails of hair, The ribbons floating from the summer hat, The grievingface, dropp'd head absorbed with care. O, dainty little form! I see itmove, receding slow along the path, By hovering butterflies besieged; Isee it reach The breezy top clear-cut against the sky, . . . Then passbeyond and sink from sight-forever!

Within, was light and cheer; without, A blustering winter's right. Therewas a play; It was her own; for she had wrought it out Unhelped, from herown head-and she But turned sixteen! A pretty play, All graced withcunning fantasies, And happy songs, and peopled all with fays, And sylvangods and goddesses, And shepherds, too, that piped and danced, And worethe guileless hours away In care-free romps and games. 

Her girlhood mates played in the piece, And she as well: a goddess, she, --And looked it, as it seemed to me. 

'Twas fairyland restored-so beautiful it was And innocent. It made uscry, we elder ones, To live our lost youth o'er again With these itshappy heirs. 

Slowly, at last, the curtain fell. Before us, there, she stood, allwreathed and draped In roses pearled with dew-so sweet, so glad, Soradiant!--and flung us kisses through the storm Of praise that crownedher triumph . . . . O, Across the mists of time I see her yet, MyGoddess of the Flowers!

. . . The curtain hid her . . . . Do you comprehend? Till timeshall end! Out of my life she vanished while I looked!

. . . Ten years are flown. O, I have watched so long, So long. Butshe will come no more. No, she will come no more. 

It seems so strange . . . So strange . . . Struck down unwarned! Inthe unbought grace, of youth laid low--In the glory of her fresh youngbloom laid low--In the morning of her life cut down! And I not by! Notby When the shadows fell, the night of death closed down The sun that litmy life went out. Not by to answer When the latest whisper passed thelips That were so dear to me--my name! Far from my post! the world'swhole breadth away. O, sinking in the waves of death she cried to me Formother-help, and got for answer Silence!

We that are old--we comprehend; even we That are not mad: whose grown-upscions still abide; Their tale complete: Their earlier selves we glimpseat intervals Far in the dimming past; We see the little forms as oncethey were, And whilst we ache to take them to our hearts, The visionfades. We know them lost to us--Forever lost; we cannot have them back;We miss them as we miss the dead, We mourn them as we mourn the dead. 

APPENDIX V

SELECTIONS FROM AN UNFINISHED BOOK, "3, 000 YEARS AMONG THE MICROBES"

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A MICROBE, WHO, IN A FORMER EXISTENCE, HAD BEEN AMAN--HIS PRESENT HABITAT BEING THE ORGANISM OF A TRAMP, BLITZOWSKI. (WRITTEN AT DUBLIN, NEW HAMPSHIRE, 1905)

(See Chapter ccxxxv)

Our world (the tramp) is as large and grand and awe-compelling to usmicroscopic creatures as is man's world to man. Our tramp ismountainous, there are vast oceans in him, and lakes that are sea-likefor size, there are many rivers (veins and arteries) which are fifteenmiles across, and of a length so stupendous as to make the Mississippiand the Amazon trifling little Rhode Island brooks by comparison. As forour minor rivers, they are multitudinous, and the dutiable commerce ofdisease which they carry is rich beyond the dreams of the Americancustom-house. 

Take a man like Sir Oliver Lodge, and what secret of Nature can be hiddenfrom him? He says: "A billion, that is a million millions, [?? TrillionD. W. ] of atoms is truly an immense number, but the resulting aggregate isstill excessively minute. A portion of substance consisting, of abillion atoms is only barely visible with the highest power of amicroscope; and a speck or granule, in order to be visible to the nakedeye, like a grain of lycopodium-dust, must be a million times biggerstill. "

The human eye could see it then--that dainty little speck. But with mymicrobe-eye I could see every individual of the whirling billions ofatoms that compose the speck. Nothing is ever at rest--wood, iron, water, everything is alive, everything is raging, whirling, whizzing, dayand night and night and day, nothing is dead, there is no such thing asdeath, everything is full of bristling life, tremendous life, even thebones of the crusader that perished before Jerusalem eight centuries ago. There are no vegetables, all things are animal; each electron is ananimal, each molecule is a collection of animals, and each has anappointed duty to perform and a soul to be saved. Heaven was not madefor man alone, and oblivion and neglect reserved for the rest of Hiscreatures. He gave them life, He gave them humble services to perform, they have performed them, and they will not be forgotten, they will havetheir reward. Man-always vain, windy, conceited-thinks he will be in themajority there. He will be disappointed. Let him humble himself. Butfor the despised microbe and the persecuted bacillus, who needed a homeand nourishment, he would not have been created. He has a mission, therefore a reason for existing: let him do the service he was made for, and keep quiet. 

Three weeks ago I was a man myself, and thought and felt as men think andfeel; I have lived 3, 000 years since then [microbic time], and I see thefoolishness of it now. We live to learn, and fortunate are we when weare wise enough to profit by it. 

In matters pertaining to microscopy we necessarily have an advantage hereover the scientist of the earth, because, as I have just been indicating, we see with our naked eyes minutenesses which no man-made microscope candetect, and are therefore able to register as facts many things whichexist for him as theories only. Indeed, we know as facts several thingswhich he has not yet divined even by theory. For example, he does notsuspect that there is no life but animal life, and that all atoms areindividual animals endowed each with a certain degree of consciousness, great or small, each with likes and dislikes, predilections andaversions--that, in a word, each has a character, a character of its own. Yet such is the case. Some of the molecules of a stone have an aversionfor some of those of a vegetable or any other creature and will notassociate with them--and would not be allowed to, if they tried. Nothingis more particular about society than a molecule. And so there are noend of castes; in this matter India is not a circumstance. 

"Tell me, Franklin [a microbe of great learning], is the ocean anindividual, an animal, a creature?"

"Yes. "

"Then water--any water-is an individual?"

"Yes. "

"Suppose you remove a drop of it? Is what is left an individual?"

"Yes, and so is the drop. "

"Suppose you divide the drop?"

"Then you have two individuals. "

"Suppose you separate the hydrogen and the oxygen?"

"Again you have two individuals. But you haven't water any more. "

"Of course. Certainly. Well, suppose you combine them again, but in anew way: make the proportions equal--one part oxygen to one of hydrogen?"

"But you know you can't. They won't combine on equal terms. "

I was ashamed to have made that blunder. I was embarrassed; to cover itI started to say we used to combine them like that where I came from, butthought better of it, and stood pat. 

"Now then, " I said, "it amounts to this: water is an individual, ananimal, and is alive; remove the hydrogen and it is an animal and isalive; the remaining oxygen is also an individual, an animal, and isalive. Recapitulation: the two individuals combined constitute a thirdindividual--and yet each continues to be an individual. "

I glanced at Franklin, but . . . Upon reflection, held my peace. Icould have pointed out to him that here was mute Nature explaining thesublime mystery of the Trinity so luminously--that even the commonestunderstanding could comprehend it, whereas many a trained master of wordshad labored to do it with speech and failed. But he would not have knownwhat I was talking about. After a moment I resumed:

"Listen--and see if I have understood you rightly, to wit: All the atomsthat constitute each oxygen molecule are separate individuals, and eachis a living animal; all the atoms that constitute each hydrogen moleculeare separate individuals, and each one is a living animal; each drop ofwater consists of millions of living animals, the drop itself is anindividual, a living animal, and the wide ocean is another. Is that it?"

"Yes, that is correct. "

"By George, it beats the band!"

He liked the expression, and set it down in his tablets. 

"Franklin, we've got it down fine. And to think--there are other animalsthat are still smaller than a hydrogen atom, and yet it is so small thatit takes five thousand of them to make a molecule--a molecule so minutethat it could get into a microbe's eye and he wouldn't know it wasthere!"

"Yes, the wee creatures that inhabit the bodies of us germs and feed uponus, and rot us with disease: Ah, what could they have been created for?They give us pain, they make our lives miserable, they murder us--andwhere is the use of it all, where the wisdom? Ah, friend Bkshp [microbicorthography], we live in a strange and unaccountable world; our birth isa mystery, our little life is a mystery, a trouble, we pass and are seenno more; all is mystery, mystery, mystery; we know not whence we came, nor why; we know not whither we go, nor why we go. We only know we werenot made in vain, we only know we were made for a wise purpose, and thatall is well! We shall not be cast aside in contumely and unblest afterall we have suffered. Let us be patient, let us not repine, let ustrust. The humblest of us is cared for--oh, believe it!--and thisfleeting stay is not the end!"

You notice that? He did not suspect that he, also, was engaged ingnawing, torturing, defiling, rotting, and murdering a fellow-creature--he and all the swarming billions of his race. None of them suspectsit. That is significant. It is suggestive--irresistibly suggestive--insistently suggestive. It hints at the possibility that theprocession of known and listed devourers and persecutors is not complete. It suggests the possibility, and substantially the certainty, that man ishimself a microbe, and his globe a blood-corpuscle drifting with itsshining brethren of the Milky Way down a vein of the Master and Maker ofall things, whose body, mayhap--glimpsed part-wise from the earth bynight, and receding and lost to view in the measureless remotenesses ofspace--is what men name the Universe. 

Yes, that was all old to me, but to find that our little old familiarmicrobes were themselves loaded up with microbes that fed them, enrichedthem, and persistently and faithfully preserved them and their poor oldtramp-planet from destruction--oh, that was new, and too delicious!

I wanted to see them! I was in a fever to see them! I had lenses totwo-million power, but of course the field was no bigger than a person'sfinger-nail, and so it wasn't possible to compass a considerablespectacle or a landscape with them; whereas what I had been craving was athirty-foot field, which would represent a spread of several miles ofcountry and show up things in a way to make them worth looking at. Theboys and I had often tried to contrive this improvement, but had failed. 

I mentioned the matter to the Duke and it made him smile. He said it wasa quite simple thing-he had it at home. I was eager to bargain for thesecret, but he said it was a trifle and not worth bargaining for. Hesaid:

"Hasn't it occurred to you that all you have to do is to bend an X-ray toan angle-value of 8. 4 and refract it with a parabolism, and there youare?"

Upon my word, I had never thought of that simple thing! You could haveknocked me down with a feather. 

We rigged a microscope for an exhibition at once and put a drop of myblood under it, which got mashed flat when the lens got shut down uponit. The result was beyond my dreams. The field stretched miles away, green and undulating, threaded with streams and roads, and bordered alldown the mellowing distances with picturesque hills. And there was agreat white city of tents; and everywhere were parks of artillery anddivisions of cavalry and infantry waiting. We had hit a lucky moment, evidently there was going to be a march-past or some thing like that. Atthe front where the chief banner flew there was a large and showy tent, with showy guards on duty, and about it were some other tents of a swellkind. 

The warriors--particularly the officers--were lovely to look at, theywere so trim-built and so graceful and so handsomely uniformed. Theywere quite distinct, vividly distinct, for it was a fine day, and theywere so immensely magnified that they looked to be fully a finger-nailhigh. --[My own expression, and a quite happy one. I said to the Duke:"Your Grace, they're just about finger-milers!" "How do you mean, m'lord?" "This. You notice the stately General standing there with hishand resting upon the muzzle of a cannon? Well, if you could stick yourlittle finger down against the ground alongside of him his plumes wouldjust reach up to where your nail joins the flesh. " The Duke said"finger-milers was good"--good and exact; and he afterward used it severaltimes himself. ]--Everywhere you could see officers moving smartly about, and they looked gay, but the common soldiers looked sad. Manywife-swinks ["Swinks, " an atomic race] and daughter-swinks andsweetheart-swinks were about--crying, mainly. It seemed to indicate thatthis was a case of war, not a summer-camp for exercise, and that the poorlabor-swinks were being torn from their planet-saving industries to goand distribute civilization and other forms of suffering among the feeblebenighted somewhere; else why should the swinkesses cry?

The cavalry was very fine--shiny black horses, shapely and spirited; andpresently when a flash of light struck a lifted bugle (delivering acommand which we couldn't hear) and a division came tearing down on agallop it was a stirring and gallant sight, until the dust rose an inch--the Duke thought more--and swallowed it up in a rolling and tumblinglong gray cloud, with bright weapons glinting and sparkling in it. 

Before long the real business of the occasion began. A battalion ofpriests arrived carrying sacred pictures. That settled it: this was war;these far-stretching masses of troops were bound for the front. Theirlittle monarch came out now, the sweetest little thing that evertravestied the human shape I think, and he lifted up his hands andblessed the passing armies, and they looked as grateful as they could, and made signs of humble and real reverence as they drifted by the holypictures. 

It was beautiful--the whole thing; and wonderful, too, when those serriedmasses swung into line and went marching down the valley under the longarray of fluttering flags. 

Evidently they were going somewhere to fight for their king, which wasthe little manny that blessed them; and to preserve him and his brethrenthat occupied the other swell tents; to civilize and grasp a valuablelittle unwatched country for them somewhere. But the little fellow andhis brethren didn't fall in--that was a noticeable particular. Theydidn't fight; they stayed at home, where it was safe, and waited for theswag. 

Very well, then-what ought we to do? Had we no moral duty to perform?Ought we to allow this war to begin? Was it not our duty to stop it, inthe name of right and righteousness? Was it not our duty to administer arebuke to this selfish and heartless Family?

The Duke was struck by that, and greatly moved. He felt as I did aboutit, and was ready to do whatever was right, and thought we ought to pourboiling water on the Family and extinguish it, which we did. 

It extinguished the armies, too, which was not intended. We bothregretted this, but the Duke said that these people were nothing to us, and deserved extinction anyway for being so poor-spirited as to servesuch a Family. He was loyally doing the like himself, and so was I, butI don't think we thought of that. And it wasn't just the same, anyway, because we were sooflaskies, and they were only swinks. 

Franklin realizes that no atom is destructible; that it has alwaysexisted and will exist forever; but he thinks all atoms will go out ofthis world some day and continue their life in a happier one. OldTolliver thinks no atom's life will ever end, but he also thinksBlitzowski is the only world it will ever see, and that at no time in itseternity will it be either worse off or better off than it is now andalways has been. Of course he thinks the planet Blitzowski is itselfeternal and indestructible--at any rate he says he thinks that. It couldmake me sad, only I know better. D. T. Will fetch Blitzy yet one ofthese days. 

But these are alien thoughts, human thoughts, and they falsely indicatethat I do not want this tramp to go on living. What would become of meif he should disintegrate? My molecules would scatter all around andtake up new quarters in hundreds of plants and animals; each would carryits special feelings along with it, each would be content in its newestate, but where should I be? I should not have a rag of a feelingleft, after my disintegration--with his--was complete. Nothing to thinkwith, nothing to grieve or rejoice with, nothing to hope or despair with. There would be no more me. I should be musing and thinking and dreamingsomewhere else--in some distant animal maybe--perhaps a cat--by proxy ofmy oxygen I should be raging and fuming in some other creatures--a rat, perhaps; I should be smiling and hoping in still another child of Nature--heir to my hydrogen--a weed, or a cabbage, or something; my carbonicacid (ambition) would be dreaming dreams in some lowly wood-violet thatwas longing for a showy career; thus my details would be doing as muchfeeling as ever, but I should not be aware of it, it would all be goingon for the benefit of those others, and I not in it at all. I should begradually wasting away, atom by atom, molecule by molecule, as the yearswent on, and at last I should be all distributed, and nothing left ofwhat had once been Me. It is curious, and not without impressiveness: Ishould still be alive, intensely alive, but so scattered that I would notknow it. I should not be dead--no, one cannot call it that--but I shouldbe the next thing to it. And to think what centuries and ages and aeonswould drift over me before the disintegration was finished, the last boneturned to gas and blown away! I wish I knew what it is going to feellike, to lie helpless such a weary, weary time, and see my facultiesdecay and depart, one by one, like lights which burn low, and flicker andperish, until the ever-deepening gloom and darkness which--oh, away, awaywith these horrors, and let me think of something wholesome!

My tramp is only 85; there is good hope that he will live ten yearslonger--500, 000 of my microbe years. So may it be. 

Oh, dear, we are all so wise! Each of us knows it all, and knows heknows it all--the rest, to a man, are fools and deluded. One man knowsthere is a hell, the next one knows there isn't; one man knows hightariff is right, the next man knows it isn't; one man knows monarchy isbest, the next one knows it isn't; one age knows there are witches, thenext one knows there aren't; one sect knows its religion is the only trueone, there are sixty-four thousand five hundred million sects that knowit isn't so. There is not a mind present among this multitude ofverdict-deliverers that is the superior of the minds that persuade andrepresent the rest of the divisions of the multitude. Yet this sarcasticfact does not humble the arrogance nor diminish the know-it-all bulk of asingle verdict-maker of the lot by so much as a shade. Mind is plainlyan ass, but it will be many ages before it finds it out, no doubt. Whydo we respect the opinions of any man or any microbe that ever lived? Iswear I don't know. Why do I respect my own? Well--that is different. 

APPENDIX W

LITTLE BESSIE WOULD ASSIST PROVIDENCE

(See Chapter cclxxxii)

[It is dull, and I need wholesome excitements and distractions; so I willgo lightly excursioning along the primrose path of theology. ]

Little Bessie was nearly three years old. She was a good child, and notshallow, not frivolous, but meditative and thoughtful, and much given tothinking out the reasons of things and trying to make them harmonize withresults. One day she said:

"Mama, why is there so much pain and sorrow and suffering? What is itall for?"

It was an easy question, and mama had no difficulty in answering it:

"It is for our good, my child. In His wisdom and mercy the Lord sends usthese afflictions to discipline us and make us better. "

"Is it He that sends them?"

"Yes. "

"Does He send all of them, mama?"

"Yes, dear, all of them. None of them comes by accident; He alone sendsthem, and always out of love for us, and to make us better. "

"Isn't it strange?"

"Strange? Why, no, I have never thought of it in that way. I have notheard any one call it strange before. It has always seemed natural andright to me, and wise and most kindly and merciful. "

"Who first thought of it like that, mama? Was it you?"

"Oh no, child, I was taught it. "

"Who taught you so, mama?"

"Why, really, I don't know--I can't remember. My mother, I suppose; orthe preacher. But it's a thing that everybody knows. "

"Well, anyway, it does seem strange. Did He give Billy Norris thetyphus?"

"Yes. "

"What for?"

"Why, to discipline him and make him good. "

"But he died, mama, and so it couldn't make him good. "

"Well, then, I suppose it was for some other reason. We know it was agood reason, whatever it was. "

"What do you think it was, mama?"

"Oh, you ask so many questions! I think it was to discipline hisparents. "

"Well, then, it wasn't fair, mama. Why should his life be taken away fortheir sake, when he wasn't doing anything?"

"Oh, I don't know! I only know it was for a good and wise and mercifulreason. "

"What reason, mama?"

"I think--I think-well, it was a judgment; it was to punish them for somesin they had committed. "

"But he was the one that was punished, mama. Was that right?"

"Certainly, certainly. He does nothing that isn't right and wise andmerciful. You can't understand these things now, dear, but when you aregrown up you will understand them, and then you will see that they arejust and wise. "

After a pause:

"Did He make the roof fall in on the stranger that was trying to save thecrippled old woman from the fire, mama?"

"Yes, my child. Wait! Don't ask me why, because I don't know. I onlyknow it was to discipline some one, or be a judgment upon somebody, or toshow His power. "

"That drunken man that stuck a pitchfork into Mrs. Welch's baby when--"

"Never mind about it, you needn't go into particulars; it was todiscipline the child--that much is certain, anyway. "

"Mama, Mr. Burgess said in his sermon that billions of little creaturesare sent into us to give us cholera, and typhoid, and lockjaw, and morethan a thousand other sicknesses and--mama, does He send them?"

"Oh, certainly, child, certainly. Of course. "

"What for?"

"Oh, to discipline us! Haven't I told you so, over and over again?"

"It's awful cruel, mama! And silly! and if I----"

"Hush, oh, hush! Do you want to bring the lightning?"

"You know the lightning did come last week, mama, and struck the newchurch, and burnt it down. Was it to discipline the church?"

(Wearily. ) "Oh, I suppose so. "

"But it killed a hog that wasn't doing anything. Was it to disciplinethe hog, mama?"

"Dear child, don't you want to run out and play a while? If you wouldlike to----"

"Mama, only think! Mr. Hollister says there isn't a bird, or fish, orreptile, or any other animal that hasn't got an enemy that Providence hassent to bite it and chase it and pester it and kill it and suck its bloodand discipline it and make it good and religious. Is that true, mother--because if it is true why did Mr. Hollister laugh at it?"

"That Hollister is a scandalous person, and I don't want you to listen toanything he says. "

"Why, mama, he is very interesting, and I think he tries to be good. Hesays the wasps catch spiders and cram them down into their nests in theground--alive, mama!--and there they live and suffer days and days anddays, and the hungry little wasps chewing their legs and gnawing intotheir bellies all the time, to make them good and religious and praiseGod for His infinite mercies. I think Mr. Hollister is just lovely, andever so kind; for when I asked him if he would treat a spider like thathe said he hoped to be damned if he would; and then he----Dear mama, haveyou fainted! I will run and bring help! Now this comes of staying intown this hot weather. "

 APPENDIX X

 A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF MARK TWAIN'S WORK

 PUBLISHED AND OTHERWISE--FROM 1851-1910

Note 1. --This is not a detailed bibliography, but merely a general listof Mark Twain's literary undertakings, in the order of performance, showing when, and usually where, the work was done, when and where firstpublished, etc. An excellent Mark Twain bibliography has been compiledby Mr. Merle Johnson, to whom acknowledgments are due for importantitems. 

Note 2. --Only a few of the more important speeches are noted. Volumesthat are merely collections of tales or articles are not noted. 

Note 3. --Titles are shortened to those most commonly in use, as "HuckFinn" or "Huck" for "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. "

Names of periodicals are abbreviated. 

The initials U. E. Stand for the "Uniform Edition" of Mark Twain'sworks. 

The chapter number or numbers in the line with the date refers to theplace in this work where the items are mentioned. 

 1851. (See Chapter xviii of this work. )

Edited the Hannibal Journal during the absence of the owner and editor, Orion Clemens. Wrote local items for the Hannibal Journal. Burlesque of a rival editor in the Hannibal Journal. Wrote two sketches for The Sat. Eve. Post (Philadelphia). To MARY IN H-l. Hannibal Journal. 

 1852-53. (See Chapter xviii. )

JIM WOLFE AND THE FIRE--Hannibal Journal. Burlesque of a rival editor in the Hannibal Journal. 

 1853. (See Chapter xix. )

Wrote obituary poems--not published. Wrote first letters home. 

 1855-56. (See Chapters xx and xxi. )

First after-dinner speech; delivered at a printers' banquet in Keokuk, Iowa. Letters from Cincinnati, November 16, 1856, signed "Snodgrass"--Saturday Post (Keokuk). 

 1857. (See Chapter xxi. )

Letters from Cincinnati, March 16, 1857, signed "Snodgrass"--SaturdayPost (Keokuk). 

 1858. 

Anonymous contributions to the New Orleans Crescent and probably to St. Louis papers. 

 1859. (See Chapter xxvii; also Appendix B. )

Burlesque of Capt. Isaiah Sellers--True Delta (New Orleans), May 8 or 9. 

 1861. (See Chapters xxxiii to xxxv. )

Letters home, published in The Gate City (Keokuk). 

 1862. (See Chapters xxxv to xxxviii. )

Letters and sketches, signed "Josh, " for the Territorial Enterprise(Virginia City, Nevada). REPORT OF THE LECTURE OF PROF. PERSONAL PRONOUN--Enterprise. REPORT OF A FOURTH OF JULY ORATION--Enterprise. THE PETRIFIED MAN--Enterprise. Local news reporter for the Enterprise from August. 

 1863. (See Chapters xli to xliii; also Appendix C. )

Reported the Nevada Legislature for the Enterprise. First used the name "Mark Twain, " February 2. ADVICE TO THE UNRELIABLE--Enterprise. CURING A COLD--Enterprise. U. E. INFORMATION FOR THE MILLION--Enterprise. ADVICE TO GOOD LITTLE GIRLS--Enterprise. THE DUTCH NICK MASSACRE--Enterprise. Many other Enterprise sketches. THE AGED PILOT MAN (poem)--"ROUGHING IT. " U. E. 

 1864. (See. Chapters xliv to xlvii. )

Reported the Nevada Legislature for the Enterprise. Speech as "Governor of the Third House. "Letters to New York Sunday Mercury. Local reporter on the San Francisco Call. Articles and sketches for the Golden Era. Articles and sketches for the Californian. Daily letters from San Francisco to the Enterprise. (Several of the Era and Californian sketches appear in SKETCHES NEW ANDOLD. U. E. )

 1865. (See Chapters xlix to li; also Appendix E. )

Notes for the Jumping Frog story; Angel's Camp, February. Sketches etc. , for the Golden Era and Californian. Daily letter to the Enterprise. THE JUMPING FROG (San Francisco) Saturday Press. New York, November 18. U. E. 

 1866. (See Chapters lii to lv; also Appendix D. )

Daily letter to the Enterprise. Sandwich Island letters to the Sacramento Union. Lecture on the Sandwich Islands, San Francisco, October 2. FORTY-THREE DAYS IN AN OPEN BOAT--Harper's Magazine, December (error insignature made it Mark Swain). 

 1867. (See Chapters lvii to lxv; also Appendices E, F, and G. )

Letters to Alta California from New York. JIM WOLFE AND THE CATS--N. Y. Sunday Mercury. THE JUMPING FROG--book, published by Charles Henry Webb, May 1. U. E. Lectured at Cooper Union, May, '66. Letters to Alta California and New York Tribune from the Quaker City--Holy Land excursion. Letter to New York Herald on the return from the Holy Land. After-dinner speech on "Women" (Washington). Began arrangement for the publication of THE INNOCENTS ABROAD. 

 1868. (See Chapters lxvi to lxix; also Appendices H and I. )

Newspaper letters, etc. , from Washington, for New York Citizen, Tribune, Herald, and other papers and periodicals. Preparing Quaker City letters (in Washington and San Francisco) for bookpublication. CAPTAIN WAKEMAN'S (STORMFIELD'S) VISIT TO HEAVEN (San Francisco), published Harper's Magazine, December, 1907-January, 1908 (also book, Harpers). Lectured in California and Nevada on the "Holy Land, " July 2. S'CAT! Anonymous article on T. K. Beecher (Elmira), published in localpaper. Lecture-tour, season 1868-69. 

 1869. (See Chapters lxx to lxxni. )

THE INNOCENTS ABROAD--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), July 20. U. E. Bought one-third ownership in the Buffalo Express. Contributed editorials, sketches, etc. , to the Express. Contributed sketches to Packard's Monthly, Wood's Magazine, etc. Lecture-tour, season 1869-70. 

 1870. (See Chapters lxxiv to lxxx; also Appendix J. )

Contributed various matter to Buffalo Express. Contributed various matter under general head of "MEMORANDA" to GalaxyMagazine, May to April, '71. ROUGHING IT begun in September (Buffalo). SHEM'S DIARY (Buffalo) (unfinished). GOD, ANCIENT AND MODERN (unpublished). 

 1871. (See Chapters lxxxi and lxxxii; also Appendix K. )

MEMORANDA continued in Galaxy to April. AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND FIRST ROMANCE--[THE FIRST ROMANCE had appeared in theExpress in 1870. Later included in SKETCHES. ]--booklet (Sheldon & Co. ). U. E. ROUGHING IT finished (Quarry Farm). Ruloff letter--Tribune. Wrote several sketches and lectures (Quarry Farm). Western play (unfinished). Lecture-tour, season 1871-72. 

 1872. (See Chapters lxxxiii to lxxxvii; also Appendix L. )

ROUGHING IT--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), February. U. E. THE MARK TWAIN SCRAP-BOOK invented (Saybrook, Connecticut). TOM SAWYER begun as a play (Saybrook, Connecticut). A few unimportant sketches published in "Practical jokes, " etc. Began a book on England (London). 

 1873. (See Chapters lxxxviii to xcii. )

Letters on the Sandwich Islands-Tribune, January 3 and 6. THE GILDED AGE (with C. D. Warner)--book (Am. Pub. Co), December. U. E. THE LICENSE OF THE PRESS--paper for The Monday Evening Club. Lectured in London, October 18 and season 1873-74. 

 1874. (See Chapters xciii to xcviii; also Appendix M. )

TOM SAWYER continued (in the new study at Quarry Farm). A TRUE STORY (Quarry Farm)-Atlantic, November. U. E. FABLES (Quarry Farm). U. E. COLONEL SELLERS--play (Quarry Farm) performed by John T. Raymond. UNDERTAKER'S LOVE-STORY (Quarry Farm) (unpublished). OLD TIMES ON THE MISSISSIPPI (Hartford) Atlantic, January to July, 1875. Monarchy letter to Mrs. Clemens, dated 1935 (Boston). 

 1875. (See Chapters c to civ; also Appendix N. )

UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE--paper for The Monday Evening Club. SKETCHES NEW AND OLD--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), July. U. E. TOM SAWYER concluded (Hartford). THE CURIOUS REP. OF GONDOUR--Atlantic, October (unsigned). PUNCH, CONDUCTOR, PUNCH--Atlantic, February, 1876. U. E. THE SECOND ADVENT (unfinished). THE MYSTERIOUS CHAMBER (unfinished). AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DAMN FOOL (unfinished). Petition for International Copyright. 1876. (See Chapters cvi to cx. )

Performed in THE LOAN OF THE LOVER as Peter Spuyk (Hartford). CARNIVAL OF CRIME--paper for The Monday Evening Club--Atlantic, June. U. E. HUCK FINN begun (Quarry Farm). CANVASSER'S STORY (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic, December. U. E. "1601" (Quarry Farm), privately printed. [And not edited by Livy. D. W. ]AH SIN (with Bret Harte)--play, (Hartford). TOM SAWYER--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), December. U. E. Speech on "The Weather, " New England Society, December 22. 

 1877. (See Chapters cxii to cxv; also Appendix O. )

LOVES OF ALONZO FITZ-CLARENCE, ETC. (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic. IDLE EXCURSION (Quarry Farm)--Atlantic, October, November, December. U. E. SIMON WHEELER, DETECTIVE--play (Quarry Farm) (not produced). PRINCE AND PAUPER begun (Quarry Farm). Whittier birthday speech (Boston), December. 

 1878. (See Chapters cxvii to cxx. )

MAGNANIMOUS INCIDENT (Hartford)--Atlantic, May. U. E. A TRAMP ABROAD (Heidelberg and Munich). MENTAL TELEGRAPHY--Harper's Magazine, December, 1891. U. E. GAMBETTA DUEL--Atlantic, February, 1879 (included in TRAMP). U. E. REV. IN PITCAIRN--Atlantic, March, 1879. U. E. STOLEN WHITE ELEPHANT--book (Osgood & Co. ), 1882. U. E. (The three items last named were all originally a part of the TRAMPABROAD. )

 1879. (See Chapters cxxi to cxxiv; also Chapter cxxxiv and Appendix P. )

A TRAMP ABROAD continued (Paris, Elmira, and Hartford). Adam monument scheme (Elmira). Speech on "The Babies" (Grant dinner, Chicago), November. Speech on "Plagiarism" (Holmes breakfast, Boston), December. 

 1880. (See Chapters cxxv to cxxxii. )

PRINCE AND PAUPER concluded (Hartford and Elmira). HUCK FINN continued (Quarry Farm, Elmira). A CAT STORY (Quarry Farm) (unpublished). A TRAMP ABROAD--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), March 13. U. E. EDWARD MILLS AND GEO. BENTON (Hartford)--Atlantic, August. U. E. MRS. McWILLIAMS AND THE LIGHTNING (Hartford)--Atlantic, September. U. E. 

 1881. (See Chapters cxxxiv to cxxxvii. )

A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE--Century, November. U. E. A BIOGRAPHY OF ----- (unfinished). PRINCE AND PAUPER--book (Osgood R; CO. ), December. BURLESQUE ETIQUETTE (unfinished). [Included in LETTERS FROM THE EARTHD. W. ]

 1882. (See Chapters cxl and cxli. )

LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI (Elmira and Hartford). 

 1883. (See Chapters cxlii to cxlviii. )

LIFE ON THE Mississippi--book (Osgood R CO. ), May. U. E. WHAT Is HAPPINESS?--paper for The Monday Evening Club. Introduction to Portuguese conversation book (Hartford). HUCK FINN concluded (Quarry Farm). HISTORY GAME (Quarry Farm). AMERICAN CLAIMANT (with W. D. Howells)--play (Hartford), produced byA. P. Burbank. Dramatized TOM SAWYER and PRINCE AND PAUPER (not produced). 

 1884. (See Chapters cxlix to cliii. )

Embarked in publishing with Charles L. Webster. THE CARSON FOOTPRINTS--the San Franciscan. HUCK FINN--book (Charles L. Webster & Co. ), December. U. E. Platform-readings with George W. Cable, season '84-'85. 

 1885. (See Chapters cliv to clvii. )

Contracted for General Grant's Memoirs. A CAMPAIGN THAT FAILED--Century, December. U. E. THE UNIVERSAL TINKER--Century, December (open letter signed X. Y. Z. Letter on the government of children--Christian Union. )KIDITCHIN (children's poem). 

 1886. (See Chapters clix to clxi; also Appendix Q. )

Introduced Henry M. Stanley (Boston). CONNECTICUT YANKEE begun (Hartford). ENGLISH AS SHE IS TAUGHT--Century, April, 1887. LUCK--Harper's, August, 1891. GENERAL GRANT AND MATTHEW ARNOLD--Army and Navy dinner speech. 

 1887. (See Chapters clxii to clxiv; also Appendix R. )

MEISTERSCHAFT--play (Hartford)-Century, January, 1888. U. E. KNIGHTS OF LABOR--essay (not published). To THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND--Harper's Magazine, December. U. E. CONSISTENCY--paper for The Monday Evening Club. 

 1888. (See Chapters clxv to clxviii. )

Introductory for "Unsent Letters" (unpublished). Master of Arts degree from Yale. Yale Alumni address (unpublished). Copyright controversy with Brander Matthews--Princeton Review. Replies to Matthew Arnold's American criticisms (unpublished). YANKEE continued (Elmira and Hartford). Introduction of Nye and Riley (Boston). 

 1889. (See Chapters clxix to clxxiii; also Appendix S. )

A MAJESTIC LITERARY FOSSIL Harper's Magazine, February, 1890. U. E. HUCK AND TOM AMONG THE INDIANS (unfinished). Introduction to YANKEE (not used). LETTER To ELSIE LESLIE--St Nicholas, February, 1890. CONNECTICUT YANKEE--book (Webster & Co. ), December. U. E. 

 1890. (See Chapters clxxii to clxxiv. )

Letter to Andrew Lang about English Criticism. (No important literary matters this year. Mark Twain engagedpromoting the Paige typesetting-machine. )

 1891. (See Chapters clxxv to clxxvii. )

AMERICAN CLAIMANT (Hartford) syndicated; also book (Webster & Co. ), May, 1892. U. E. European letters to New York Sun. DOWN THE RHONE (unfinished). KORNERSTRASSE (unpublished). 

 1892. (See Chapters clxxx to clxxxii. )

THE GERMAN CHICAGO (Berlin--Sun. ) U. E. ALL KINDS OF SHIPS (at sea). U. E. Tom SAWYER ABROAD (Nauheim)--St. Nicholas, November, '93, to April, '94. U. E. THOSE EXTRAORDINARY TWINS (Nauheim). U. E. PUDD'NHEAD WILSON (Nauheim and Florence)--Century, December, '93, toJune, '94 U. E. $100, 000 BANK-NOTE (Florence)--Century, January, '93. U. E. 

 1893. (See Chapters clxxxiii to clxxxvii. )

JOAN OF ARC begun (at Villa Viviani, Florence) and completed up to theraising of the Siege of Orleans. CALIFORNIAN'S TALE (Florence) Liber Scriptorum, also Harper's. ADAM'S DIARY (Florence)--Niagara Book, also Harper's. ESQUIMAU MAIDEN'S ROMANCE--Cosmopolitan, November. U. E. IS HE LIVING OR IS HE DEAD?--Cosmopolitan, September. U. E. TRAVELING WITH A REFORMER--Cosmopolitan, December. U. E. IN DEFENSE OF HARRIET SHELLEY (Florence)--N. A. --Rev. , July, '94. U. E. FENIMORE COOPER'S LITERARY OFFENSES--[This may not have been writtenuntil early in 1894. ]--(Players, New York)--N. A. Rev. , July, '95 U. E. 

 1894. (See Chapters clxxxviii to cxc. )

JOAN OF ARC continued (Etretat and Paris). WHAT PAUL BOURGET THINKS OF US (Etretat)--N. A. Rev. , January, '95 U. E. TOM SAWYER ABROAD--book (Webster & Co. ), April. U. E. PUDD'NHEAD WILSON--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), November. U. E. The failure of Charles L. Webster & Co. , April 18. THE DERELICT--poem (Paris) (unpublished). 

 1895. (See Chapters clxxxix and cxcii. )

JOAN OF ARC finished (Paris), January 28, Harper's Magazine, April toDecember. MENTAL TELEGRAPHY AGAIN--Harper's, September. U. E. A LITTLE NOTE TO PAUL BOURGET. U. E. Poem to Mrs. Beecher (Elmira) (not published). U. E. Lecture-tour around the world, begun at Elmira, July 14, ended July 31. 

 1896. (See Chapters cxci to cxciv. )

JOAN OF ARC--book (Harpers) May. U. E. TOM SAWYER, DETECTIVE, and other stories-book (Harpers), November. FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR begun (23 Tedworth Square, London). 

 1897. (See Chapters cxcvii to cxcix. )

FOLLOWING THE EQUATOR--book (Am. Pub. Co. ), November. QUEEN'S JUBILEE (London), newspaper syndicate; book privately printed. JAMES HAMMOND TRUMBULL--Century, November. WHICH WAS WHICH? (London and Switzerland) (unfinished). TOM AND HUCK (Switzerland) (unfinished). 

HELLFIRE HOTCHKISS (Switzerland) (unfinished). IN MEMORIAM--poem (Switzerland)-Harper's Magazine. U. E. Concordia Club speech (Vienna). STIRRING TIMES IN AUSTRIA (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, March, 1898. U. E. 

 1898. (See Chapters cc to cciii; also Appendix T. )

THE AUSTRIAN EDISON KEEPING SCHOOL AGAIN (Vienna) Century, August. U. E. AT THE APPETITE CURE (Vienna)--Cosmopolitan, August. U. E. FROM THE LONDON TIMES, 1904 (Vienna)--Century, November. U. E. ABOUT PLAY-ACTING (Vienna)--Forum, October. U. E. CONCERNING THE JEWS (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, September, '99. U. E. CHRISTIAN SCIENCE AND MRS. EDDY (Vienna)--Cosmopolitan, October. U. E. THE MAN THAT CORRUPTED HADLEYBURG (Vienna)--Harper's Magazine, December, '99 U. E. Autobiographical chapters (Vienna); some of them used in the N. A. Rev. , 1906-07. WHAT IS MAN? (Kaltenleutgeben)--book (privately printed), August, 1906. ASSASSINATION OF AN EMPRESS (Kaltenleutgeben) (unpublished). THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER (unfinished). Translations of German plays (unproduced). 

 1899. (See Chapters cciv to ccviii. )

DIPLOMATIC PAY AND CLOTHES (Vienna)--Forum, March. U. E. MY LITERARY DEBUT (Vienna)--Century, December. U. E. CHRISTIAN SCIENCE (Vienna)--N. A. Rev. , December, 1902, January andFebruary, 1903. Translated German plays (Vienna) (unproduced). Collaborated with Siegmund Schlesinger on plays (Vienna) (unfinished). Planned a postal-check scheme (Vienna). Articles about the Kellgren treatment (Sanna, Sweden) (unpublished). ST. JOAN OF ARC (London)--Harper's Magazine, December, 1904. U. E. MY FIRST LIE, AND How I GOT OUT OF IT (London)--New York World. U. E. 

Articles on South African War (London) (unpublished)Uniform Edition of Mark Twain's works (Am. Pub. Co. ). 

 1900. (See Chapters ccix to ccxii. )

TWO LITTLE TALES (London)--Century, November, 1901. U. E. Spoke on "Copyright" before the House of Lords. Delivered many speeches in London and New York. 

 1901. (See Chapters ccxiii to ccxviii. )

TO THE PERSON SITTING IN DARKNESS (14 West Tenth Street, New York)--N. A. Rev. , February. TO MY MISSIONARY CRITICS (14 West Tenth Street, New York)--N. A. Rev. , April. DOUBLE-BARREL DETECTIVE STORY (Saranac Lake, "The Lair") Harper'sMagazine, January and February, 1902. Lincoln Birthday Speech, February 11. Many other speeches. PLAN FOR CASTING VOTE PARTY (Riverdale) (unpublished). THE STUPENDOUS PROCESSION (Riverdale) (unpublished). ANTE-MORTEM OBITUARIES--Harper's Weekly. Received degree of Doctor of Letters from Yale. 

 1902. (See Chapters ccxix to ccxxiv; also Appendix U. )

DOES THE RACE OF MAN LOVE A LORD? (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev. , April. U. E. FIVE BOONS of LIFE (Riverdale)--Harper's Weekly, July 5. U. E. WHY NOT ABOLISH IT? (Riverdale)--Harper's Weekly, July 5. DEFENSE OF GENERAL FUNSTON (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev. , May. IF I COULD BE THERE (Riverdale unpublished). Wrote various articles, unfinished or unpublished. Received degree of LL. D. From the University of Missouri, June. 

THE BELATED PASSPORT (York Harbor)--Harper's Weekly, December 6. U. E. WAS IT HEAVEN? OR HELL? (York Harbor)--Harper's Magazine, December. U. E. Poem (Riverdale and York Harbor) (unpublished)Sixty-seventh Birthday speech (New York), November 27. 

 1903. (See Chapters ccxxv to ccxxx. )

MRS. EDDY IN ERROR (Riverdale)--N. A. Rev. , April. INSTRUCTIONS IN ART (Riverdale)-Metropolitan, April and May. EDDYPUS, and other C. S. Articles (unfinished). A DOG'S TALE (Elmira)--Harper's Magazine, December. U. E. ITALIAN WITHOUT A MASTER (Florence)--Harper's Weekly, January 21, 1904. U. E. ITALIAN WITH GRAMMAR (Florence)--Harper's Magazine, August, U. E. THE $30, 000 BEQUEST (Florence)--Harper's Weekly, December 10, 1904. U. E. 

 1904. (See Chapters ccxxx to ccxxxiv. )

AUTOBIOGRAPHY (Florence)--portions published, N. A. Rev. And Harper'sWeekly. CONCERNING COPYRIGHT (Tyringham, Massachusetts)--N. A. Rev. , January, 1905. TSARS SOLILOQUY (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)--N. A. Rev. , March, 1905. ADAM'S DIARY--book (Harpers), April. 

 1905. (See Chapters ccxxxiv to ccxxxvii; also Appendix V. )

LEOPOLD'S SOLILOQUY (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)--pamphlet, P. R. WarrenCompany. THE WAR PRAYER (21 Fifth Avenue, New York) (unpublished). EVE'S DIARY (Dublin, New Hampshire)--Harper's Magazine, December. 3, 000 YEARS AMONG THE MICROBES (unfinished). INTERPRETING THE DEITY (Dublin New Hampshire) (unpublished). A HORSE'S TALE (Dublin, New Hampshire)-Harper's Magazine, August and September, 1906. Seventieth Birthday speech. W. D. HOWELLS (21 Fifth Avenue, New York)-Harper's Magazine, July, 1906. 

 1906. (See Chapters ccxxxix to ccli. )

Autobiography dictation (21 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Dublin, NewHampshire)--selections published, N. A. Rev. , 1906 and 1907. Many speeches. Farewell lecture, Carnegie Hall, April 19. WHAT IS MAN?--book (privately printed). Copyright speech (Washington), December. 

 1907. (See Chapters cclvi to cclxiii. )

Autobiography dictations (27 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Tuxedo). Degree of Doctor of Literature conferred by Oxford, June 26. Made many London speeches. Begum of Bengal speech (Liverpool). CHRISTIAN SCIENCE--book (Harpers), February. U. E. CAPTAIN STORMFIELD'S VISIT To HEAVEN--book (Harpers). 

 1908. (See Chapters cclxiv to cclxx. )

Autobiography dictations (21 Fifth Avenue, New York; and Redding, Connecticut). Lotos Club and other speeches. Aldrich memorial speech. 

 1909. (See Chapters cclxxvi to cclxxxix; also Appendices N and W. )

IS SHAKESPEARE DEAD?--book (Harpers), April. A FABLE--Harper's Magazine December. Copyright documents (unpublished). Address to St. Timothy School. MARJORIE FLEMING (Stormfield)--Harper's Bazar, December. THE TURNING-POINT OF MY LIFE (Stormfield)--Harper's Bazar, February, 1910BESSIE DIALOGUE (unpublished). LETTERS FROM THE EARTH (unfinished). THE DEATH OF JEAN--Harper's, December, 1910. THE INTERNATIONAL LIGHTNING TRUST (unpublished). 

 1910. (See Chapter ccxcii. )

VALENTINES TO HELEN AND OTHERS (not published). ADVICE TO PAINE (not published).