Mark Twain's Letters 1867-1875, by Mark Twain

DEAR SIR,—Please do not publish the note I sent you the other day about “Hy. Slocum's” plagiarism entitled “Three Aces”—it is not important enough for such a long paragraph. Webb writes me that he has put in a paragraph about it, too—and I have requested him to suppress it. If you would simply state, in a line and a half under “Literary Notes,” that you mistook one “Hy. Slocum” (no, it was one “Carl Byng,” I perceive) “Carl Byng” for Mark Twain, and that it was the former who wrote the plagiarism entitled “Three Aces,” I think that would do a fair justice without any unseemly display. But it is hard to be accused of plagiarism—a crime I never have committed in my life.

Yrs. Truly
MARK TWAIN.

     But this came too late. Aldrich replied that he could not be
     prevented from doing him justice, as forty-two thousand copies of
     the first note, with the editor's apology duly appended, were
     already in press. He would withdraw his apology in the next number
     of Every Saturday, if Mark Twain said so. Mark Twain's response
     this time assumed the proportions of a letter.

472 DELAWARE ST., BUFFALO, Jan. 28.

DEAR MR. ALDRICH,—No indeed, don't take back the apology! Hang it, I don't want to abuse a man's civility merely because he gives me the chance.

I hear a good deal about doing things on the “spur of the moment”—I invariably regret the things I do on the spur of the moment. That disclaimer of mine was a case in point. I am ashamed every time I think of my bursting out before an unconcerned public with that bombastic pow-wow about burning publishers' letters, and all that sort of imbecility, and about my not being an imitator, etc. Who would find out that I am a natural fool if I kept always cool and never let nature come to the surface? Nobody.

But I did hate to be accused of plagiarizing Bret Harte, who trimmed and trained and schooled me patiently until he changed me from an awkward utterer of coarse grotesquenesses to a writer of paragraphs and chapters that have found a certain favor in the eyes of even some of the very decentest people in the land—and this grateful remembrance of mine ought to be worth its face, seeing that Bret broke our long friendship a year ago without any cause or provocation that I am aware of.

Well, it is funny, the reminiscences that glare out from murky corners of one's memory, now and then, without warning. Just at this moment a picture flits before me: Scene—private room in Barnum's Restaurant, Virginia, Nevada; present, Artemus Ward, Joseph T. Goodman, (editor and proprietor Daily “Enterprise”), and “Dan de Quille” and myself, reporters for same; remnants of the feast thin and scattering, but such tautology and repetition of empty bottles everywhere visible as to be offensive to the sensitive eye; time, 2.30 A.M.; Artemus thickly reciting a poem about a certain infant you wot of, and interrupting himself and being interrupted every few lines by poundings of the table and shouts of “Splendid, by Shorzhe!” Finally, a long, vociferous, poundiferous and vitreous jingling of applause announces the conclusion, and then Artemus: “Let every man 'at loves his fellow man and 'preciates a poet 'at loves his fellow man, stan' up!—Stan' up and drink health and long life to Thomas Bailey Aldrich!—and drink it stanning!” (On all hands fervent, enthusiastic, and sincerely honest attempts to comply.) Then Artemus: “Well—consider it stanning, and drink it just as ye are!” Which was done.

You must excuse all this stuff from a stranger, for the present, and when I see you I will apologize in full.

Do you know the prettiest fancy and the neatest that ever shot through Harte's brain? It was this: When they were trying to decide upon a vignette for the cover of the Overland, a grizzly bear (of the arms of the State of California) was chosen. Nahl Bras. carved him and the page was printed, with him in it, looking thus: [Rude sketch of a grizzly bear.]

As a bear, he was a success—he was a good bear—. But then, it was objected, that he was an objectless bear—a bear that meant nothing in particular, signified nothing,—simply stood there snarling over his shoulder at nothing—and was painfully and manifestly a boorish and ill-natured intruder upon the fair page. All hands said that—none were satisfied. They hated badly to give him up, and yet they hated as much to have him there when there was no paint to him. But presently Harte took a pencil and drew these two simple lines under his feet and behold he was a magnificent success!—the ancient symbol of California savagery snarling at the approaching type of high and progressive Civilization, the first Overland locomotive!: [Sketch of a small section of railway track.]

Yrs. Truly
SAML. L. CLEMENS.

     The “two simple lines,” of course, were the train rails under the
     bear's feet, and completed the striking cover design of the Overland
     monthly.

     The brief controversy over the “Three Aces” was the beginning of
     along and happy friendship between Aldrich and Mark Twain. Howells,
     Aldrich, Twichell, and Charles Dudley Warner—these were Mark
     Twain's intimates, men that he loved, each for his own special charm
     and worth.

     Aldrich he considered the most brilliant of living men.

     In his reply to Clemens's letter, Aldrich declared that he was glad
     now that, for the sake of such a letter, he had accused him falsely,
     and added:

     “Mem. Always abuse people.

     “When you come to Boston, if you do not make your presence manifest
     to me, I'll put in a!! in 'Every Saturday' to the effect that
     though you are generally known as Mark Twain your favorite nom de
     plume is 'Barry Gray.'”

     Clemens did not fail to let Aldrich know when he was in Boston
     again, and the little coterie of younger writers forgathered to give
     him welcome.

     Buffalo agreed with neither Mrs. Clemens nor the baby. What with
     nursing and anguish of mind, Mark Twain found that he could do
     nothing on the new book, and that he must give up his magazine
     department. He had lost interest in his paper and his surroundings
     in general. Journalism and authorship are poor yoke-mates. To
     Onion Clemens, at this time editing Bliss's paper at Hartford, he
     explained the situation.

MY DEAR BRO,—What I wanted of the “Liar” Sketch, was to work it into the California book—which I shall do. But day before yesterday I concluded to go out of the Galaxy on the strength of it, so I have turned it into the last Memoranda I shall ever write, and published it as a “specimen chapter” of my forthcoming book.

I have written the Galaxy people that I will never furnish them another article long or short, for any price but $500.00 cash—and have requested them not to ask me for contributions any more, even at that price.

I hope that lets them out, for I will stick to that. Now do try and leave me clear out of the 'Publisher' for the present, for I am endangering my reputation by writing too much—I want to get out of the public view for awhile.

I am still nursing Livy night and day and cannot write anything. I am nearly worn out. We shall go to Elmira ten days hence (if Livy can travel on a mattress then,) and stay there till I have finished the California book—say three months. But I can't begin work right away when I get there—must have a week's rest, for I have been through 30 days' terrific siege.

That makes it after the middle of March before I can go fairly to work—and then I'll have to hump myself and not lose a moment. You and Bliss just put yourselves in my place and you will see that my hands are full and more than full.

When I told Bliss in N. Y. that I would write something for the Publisher I could not know that I was just about to lose fifty days. Do you see the difference it makes? Just as soon as ever I can, I will send some of the book M.S. but right in the first chapter I have got to alter the whole style of one of my characters and re-write him clear through to where I am now. It is no fool of a job, I can tell you, but the book will be greatly bettered by it. Hold on a few days—four or five—and I will see if I can get a few chapters fixed to send to Bliss.

I have offered this dwelling house and the Express for sale, and when we go to Elmira we leave here for good. I shall not select a new home till the book is finished, but we have little doubt that Hartford will be the place.

We are almost certain of that. Ask Bliss how it would be to ship our furniture to Hartford, rent an upper room in a building and unbox it and store it there where somebody can frequently look after it. Is not the idea good? The furniture is worth $10,000 or $12,000 and must not be jammed into any kind of a place and left unattended to for a year.

The first man that offers $25,000 for our house can take it—it cost that. What are taxes there? Here, all bunched together—of all kinds, they are 7 per cent—simply ruin.

                         In haste,
                                   Yr Bro
                                             SAM

     There are no further letters until the end of April, by which time
     the situation had improved. Clemens had sold his interest in the
     Express (though at a loss), had severed his magazine connection, and
     was located at Quarry Farm, on a beautiful hilltop above Elmira, the
     home of Mrs. Clemens's sister, Mrs. Theodore Crane. The pure air
     and rest of that happy place, where they were to spend so many
     idyllic summers, had proved beneficial to the sick ones, and work on
     the new book progressed in consequence. Then Mark Twain's old
     editor, “Joe” Goodman, came from Virginia City for a visit, and his
     advice and encouragement were of the greatest value. Clemens even
     offered to engage Goodman on a salary, to remain until he had
     finished his book. Goodman declined the salary, but extended his
     visit, and Mark Twain at last seems to have found himself working
     under ideal conditions. He jubilantly reports his progress.

ELMIRA, Monday. May 15th 1871

FRIEND BLISS,—Yrs rec'd enclosing check for $703.35 The old “Innocents” holds out handsomely.

I have MS. enough on hand now, to make (allowing for engravings) about 400 pages of the book—consequently am two-thirds done. I intended to run up to Hartford about the middle of the week and take it along; because it has chapters in it that ought by all means to be in the prospectus; but I find myself so thoroughly interested in my work, now (a thing I have not experienced for months) that I can't bear to lose a single moment of the inspiration. So I will stay here and peg away as long as it lasts. My present idea is to write as much more as I have already written, and then cull from the mass the very best chapters and discard the rest. I am not half as well satisfied with the first part of the book as I am with what I am writing now. When I get it done I want to see the man who will begin to read it and not finish it. If it falls short of the “Innocents” in any respect I shall lose my guess.

When I was writing the “Innocents” my daily stunt was 30 pages of MS and I hardly ever got beyond it; but I have gone over that nearly every day for the last ten. That shows that I am writing with a red-hot interest. Nothing grieves me now—nothing troubles me, nothing bothers me or gets my attention—I don't think of anything but the book, and I don't have an hour's unhappiness about anything and don't care two cents whether school keeps or not. It will be a bully book. If I keep up my present lick three weeks more I shall be able and willing to scratch out half of the chapters of the Overland narrative—and shall do it.

You do not mention having received my second batch of MS, sent a week or two ago—about 100 pages.

If you want to issue a prospectus and go right to canvassing, say the word and I will forward some more MS—or send it by hand—special messenger. Whatever chapters you think are unquestionably good, we will retain of course, so they can go into a prospectus as well one time as another. The book will be done soon, now. I have 1200 pages of MS already written and am now writing 200 a week—more than that, in fact; during the past week wrote 23 one day, then 30, 33, 35, 52, and 65.—How's that?

It will be a starchy book, and should be full of snappy pictures—especially pictures worked in with the letterpress. The dedication will be worth the price of the volume—thus:

To the Late Cain.
This Book is Dedicated:

Not on account of respect for his memory, for it merits little respect; not on account of sympathy with him, for his bloody deed placed him without the pale of sympathy, strictly speaking: but out of a mere human commiseration for him that it was his misfortune to live in a dark age that knew not the beneficent Insanity Plea.

P. S.—The reaction is beginning and my stock is looking up. I am getting the bulliest offers for books and almanacs; am flooded with lecture invitations, and one periodical offers me $6,000 cash for 12 articles, of any length and on any subject, treated humorously or otherwise.

     The suggested dedication “to the late Cain” may have been the
     humoristic impulse of the moment. At all events, it did not
     materialize.

     Clemens's enthusiasm for work was now such that he agreed with
     Redpath to return to the platform that autumn, and he began at once
     writing lectures. His disposal of the Buffalo paper had left him
     considerably in debt, and platforming was a sure and quick method of
     retrenchment. More than once in the years ahead Mark Twain would
     return to travel and one-night stands to lift a burden of debt.
     Brief letters to Redpath of this time have an interest and even a
     humor of their own.

ELMIRA, June 27, 1871.

DEAR RED,—Wrote another lecture—a third one-today. It is the one I am going to deliver. I think I shall call it “Reminiscences of Some Pleasant Characters Whom I Have Met,” (or should the “whom” be left out?) It covers my whole acquaintance—kings, lunatics, idiots and all. Suppose you give the item a start in the Boston papers. If I write fifty lectures I shall only choose one and talk that one only.

No sir: Don't you put that scarecrow (portrait) from the Galaxy in, I won't stand that nightmare.

ELMIRA, July 10, 1871.
DEAR REDPATH,—I never made a success of a lecture delivered in a church
yet. People are afraid to laugh in a church. They can't be made to do it
in any possible way.

ELMIRA, N. Y. July 20, 1871.

FRIEND FALL,—Redpath tells me to blow up. Here goes! I wanted you to scare Rondout off with a big price. $125 ain't big. I got $100 the first time I ever talked there and now they have a much larger hall. It is a hard town to get to—I run a chance of getting caught by the ice and missing next engagement. Make the price $150 and let them draw out.

HARTFORD, Tuesday Aug. 8, 1871.

DEAR RED,—I am different from other women; my mind changes oftener. People who have no mind can easily be steadfast and firm, but when a man is loaded down to the guards with it, as I am, every heavy sea of foreboding or inclination, maybe of indolence, shifts the cargo. See? Therefore, if you will notice, one week I am likely to give rigid instructions to confine me to New England; next week, send me to Arizona; the next week withdraw my name; the next week give you full untrammelled swing; and the week following modify it. You must try to keep the run of my mind, Redpath, it is your business being the agent, and it always was too many for me. It appears to me to be one of the finest pieces of mechanism I have ever met with. Now about the West, this week, I am willing that you shall retain all the Western engagements. But what I shall want next week is still with God.

ELMIRA, N. Y. Sept. 15, 1871.

DEAR REDPATH,—I wish you would get me released from the lecture at Buffalo. I mortally hate that society there, and I don't doubt they hired me. I once gave them a packed house free of charge, and they never even had the common politeness to thank me. They left me to shift for myself, too, a la Bret Harte at Harvard. Get me rid of Buffalo! Otherwise I'll have no recourse left but to get sick the day I lecture there. I can get sick easy enough, by the simple process of saying the word—well never mind what word—I am not going to lecture there.

BUFFALO, Sept. 26, 1871.

DEAR REDPATH,—We have thought it all over and decided that we can't possibly talk after Feb. 2.

XI. LETTERS 1871-72. REMOVAL TO HARTFORD. A LECTURE TOUR. “ROUGHING IT.” FIRST LETTER TO HOWELLS.

     The house they had taken in Hartford was the Hooker property on
     Forest Street, a handsome place in a distinctly literary
     neighborhood. Harriet Beecher Stowe, Charles Dudley Warner, and
     other well-known writers were within easy walking distance; Twichell
     was perhaps half a mile away.

     It was the proper environment for Mark Twain. He settled his little
     family there, and was presently at Redpath's office in Boston, which
     was a congenial place, as we have seen before. He did not fail to
     return to the company of Nasby, Josh Billings, and those others of
     Redpath's “attractions” as long and as often as distance would
     permit. Bret Harte, who by this time had won fame, was also in
     Boston now, and frequently, with Howells, Aldrich, and Mark Twain,
     gathered in some quiet restaurant corner for a luncheon that lasted
     through a dim winter afternoon—a period of anecdote, reminiscence,
     and mirth. They were all young then, and laughed easily. Howells,
     has written of one such luncheon given by Ralph Keeler, a young
     Californian—a gathering at which James T. Fields was present
     “Nothing remains to me of the happy time but a sense of idle and
     aimless and joyful talk-play, beginning and ending nowhere, of eager
     laughter, of countless good stories from Fields, of a heat-lightning
     shimmer of wit from Aldrich, of an occasional concentration of our
     joint mockeries upon our host, who took it gladly.”

     But a lecture circuit cannot be restricted to the radius of Boston.
     Clemens was presently writing to Redpath from Washington and points
     farther west.

WASHINGTON, Tuesday, Oct. 28, 1871.

DEAR RED,—I have come square out, thrown “Reminiscences” overboard, and taken “Artemus Ward, Humorist,” for my subject. Wrote it here on Friday and Saturday, and read it from MS last night to an enormous house. It suits me and I'll never deliver the nasty, nauseous “Reminiscences” any more.

The Artemus Ward lecture lasted eleven days, then he wrote:

BUFFALO DEPOT, Dec. 8, 1871.

REDPATH & FALL, BOSTON,—Notify all hands that from this time I shall talk nothing but selections from my forthcoming book “Roughing It.” Tried it last night. Suits me tip-top.

The “Roughing It” chapters proved a success, and continued in high
favor through the rest of the season.

LOGANSPORT, IND. Jan. 2, 1872.

FRIEND REDPATH,—Had a splendid time with a splendid audience in Indianapolis last night—a perfectly jammed house, just as I have had all the time out here. I like the new lecture but I hate the “Artemus Ward” talk and won't talk it any more. No man ever approved that choice of subject in my hearing, I think.

Give me some comfort. If I am to talk in New York am I going to have a good house? I don't care now to have any appointments cancelled. I'll even “fetch” those Dutch Pennsylvanians with this lecture.

Have paid up $4000 indebtedness. You are the last on my list. Shall begin to pay you in a few days and then I shall be a free man again.

     With his debts paid, Clemens was anxious to be getting home. Two
     weeks following the above he wrote Redpath that he would accept no
     more engagements at any price, outside of New England, and added,
     “The fewer engagements I have from this time forth the better I
     shall be pleased.” By the end of February he was back in Hartford,
     refusing an engagement in Boston, and announcing to Redpath, “If I
     had another engagement I'd rot before I'd fill it.” From which we
     gather that he was not entirely happy in the lecture field.

     As a matter of fact, Mark Twain loathed the continuous travel and
     nightly drudgery of platform life. He was fond of entertaining, and
     there were moments of triumph that repaid him for a good deal, but
     the tyranny of a schedule and timetables was a constant
     exasperation.

     Meantime, Roughing It had appeared and was selling abundantly. Mark
     Twain, free of debt, and in pleasant circumstances, felt that the
     outlook was bright. It became even more so when, in March, the
     second child, a little girl, Susy, was born, with no attending
     misfortunes. But, then, in the early summer little Langdon died.
     It was seldom, during all of Mark Twain's life, that he enjoyed more
     than a brief period of unmixed happiness.

     It was in June of that year that Clemens wrote his first letter to
     William Dean Howells the first of several hundred that would follow
     in the years to come, and has in it something that is characteristic
     of nearly all the Clemens-Howells letters—a kind of tender
     playfulness that answered to something in Howells's make-up, his
     sense of humor, his wide knowledge of a humanity which he pictured
     so amusingly to the world.

HARTFORD, June 15, 1872.

FRIEND HOWELLS,—Could you tell me how I could get a copy of your portrait as published in Hearth and Home? I hear so much talk about it as being among the finest works of art which have yet appeared in that journal, that I feel a strong desire to see it. Is it suitable for framing? I have written the publishers of H & H time and again, but they say that the demand for the portrait immediately exhausted the edition and now a copy cannot be had, even for the European demand, which has now begun. Bret Harte has been here, and says his family would not be without that portrait for any consideration. He says his children get up in the night and yell for it. I would give anything for a copy of that portrait to put up in my parlor. I have Oliver Wendell Holmes and Bret Harte's, as published in Every Saturday, and of all the swarms that come every day to gaze upon them none go away that are not softened and humbled and made more resigned to the will of God. If I had yours to put up alongside of them, I believe the combination would bring more souls to earnest reflection and ultimate conviction of their lost condition, than any other kind of warning would. Where in the nation can I get that portrait? Here are heaps of people that want it,—that need it. There is my uncle. He wants a copy. He is lying at the point of death. He has been lying at the point of death for two years. He wants a copy—and I want him to have a copy. And I want you to send a copy to the man that shot my dog. I want to see if he is dead to every human instinct.

Now you send me that portrait. I am sending you mine, in this letter; and am glad to do it, for it has been greatly admired. People who are judges of art, find in the execution a grandeur which has not been equalled in this country, and an expression which has not been approached in any.

Yrs truly,
S. L. CLEMENS.

     The Clemens family did not spend the summer at Quarry Farm that
     year. The sea air was prescribed for Mrs. Clemens and the baby, and
     they went to Saybrook, Connecticut, to Fenwick Hall. Clemens wrote
     very little, though he seems to have planned Tom Sawyer, and perhaps
     made its earliest beginning, which was in dramatic form.

     His mind, however, was otherwise active. He was always more or less
     given to inventions, and in his next letter we find a description of
     one which he brought to comparative perfection.

     He had also conceived the idea of another book of travel, and this
     was his purpose of a projected trip to England.

FENWICK HALL, SAYBROOK, CONN.

Aug. 11, 1872.

But what I wish to put on record now, is my new invention—hence this note, which you will preserve. It is this—a self-pasting scrap-book—good enough idea if some juggling tailor does not come along and ante-date me a couple of months, as in the case of the elastic veststrap.

The nuisance of keeping a scrap-book is: 1. One never has paste or gum tragacanth handy; 2. Mucilage won't stick, or stay, 4 weeks; 3. Mucilage sucks out the ink and makes the scraps unreadable; 4. To daub and paste 3 or 4 pages of scraps is tedious, slow, nasty and tiresome. My idea is this: Make a scrap-book with leaves veneered or coated with gum-stickum of some kind; wet the page with sponge, brush, rag or tongue, and dab on your scraps like postage stamps.

Each stripe of gum the length of say 20 ems, small pica, and as broad as your finger; a blank about as broad as your finger between each 2 stripes—so in wetting the paper you need not wet any more of the gum than your scrap or scraps will cover—then you may shut up the book and the leaves won't stick together.

Preserve, also, the envelope of this letter—postmark ought to be good evidence of the date of this great humanizing and civilizing invention.

I'll put it into Dan Slote's hands and tell him he must send you all over America, to urge its use upon stationers and booksellers—so don't buy into a newspaper. The name of this thing is “Mark Twain's Self-Pasting Scrapbook.”

Yr Bro.
S. L. CLEMENS.

     The Dan Slote of this letter is, of course, his old Quaker City
     shipmate, who was engaged in the blank-book business, the firm being
     Slote & Woodman, located at 119 and 121 William Street, New York.

XII. LETTERS 1872-73. MARK TWAIN IN ENGLAND. LONDON HONORS. ACQUAINTANCE WITH DR. JOHN BROWN. A LECTURE TRIUMPH. “THE GILDED AGE”.

     Clemens did, in fact, sail for England on the given date, and was
     lavishly received there. All literary London joined in giving him a
     good time. He had not as yet been received seriously by the older
     American men of letters, but England made no question as to his
     title to first rank. Already, too, they classified him as of the
     human type of Lincoln, and reveled in him without stint. Howells
     writes: “In England, rank, fashion, and culture rejoiced in him.
     Lord Mayors, Lord Chief justices, and magnates of many kinds were
     his hosts.”

     He was treated so well and enjoyed it all so much that he could not
     write a book—the kind of book he had planned. One could not poke
     fun at a country or a people that had welcomed him with open arms.
     He made plenty of notes, at first, but presently gave up the book
     idea and devoted himself altogether to having a good time.

     He had one grievance—a publisher by the name of Hotten, a sort of
     literary harpy, of which there were a great number in those days of
     defective copyright, not merely content with pilfering his early
     work, had reprinted, under the name of Mark Twain, the work of a
     mixed assortment of other humorists, an offensive volume bearing the
     title, Screamers and Eye-openers, by Mark Twain.

     They besieged him to lecture in London, and promised him overflowing
     houses. Artemus Ward, during his last days, had earned London by
     storm with his platform humor, and they promised Mark Twain even
     greater success. For some reason, however, he did not welcome the
     idea; perhaps there was too much gaiety. To Mrs. Clemens he wrote:

LONDON, Sep. 15, 1872.

Livy, darling, everybody says lecture-lecture-lecture—but I have not the least idea of doing it—certainly not at present. Mr. Dolby, who took Dickens to America, is coming to talk business to me tomorrow, though I have sent him word once before, that I can't be hired to talk here, because I have no time to spare.

There is too much sociability—I do not get along fast enough with work. Tomorrow I lunch with Mr. Toole and a Member of Parliament—Toole is the most able Comedian of the day. And then I am done for a while. On Tuesday I mean to hang a card to my keybox, inscribed—“Gone out of the City for a week”—and then I shall go to work and work hard. One can't be caught in a hive of 4,000,000 people, like this.

I have got such a perfectly delightful razor. I have a notion to buy some for Charley, Theodore and Slee—for I know they have no such razors there. I have got a neat little watch-chain for Annie—$20.

     That Mark Twain should feel and privately report something of his
     triumphs we need not wonder at. Certainly he was never one to give
     himself airs, but to have the world's great literary center paying
     court to him, who only ten years before had been penniless and
     unknown, and who once had been a barefoot Tom Sawyer in Hannibal,
     was quite startling. It is gratifying to find evidence of human
     weakness in the following heart-to-heart letter to his publisher,
     especially in view of the relating circumstances.

LONDON, Sept. 28, 1872.

FRIEND BLISS,—I have been received in a sort of tremendous way, tonight, by the brains of London, assembled at the annual dinner of the Sheriffs of London—mine being (between you and me) a name which was received with a flattering outburst of spontaneous applause when the long list of guests was called.

I might have perished on the spot but for the friendly support and assistance of my excellent friend Sir John Bennett—and I want you to paste the enclosed in a couple of the handsomest copies of the “Innocents” and “Roughing It,” and send them to him. His address is

          “Sir John Bennett,
               Cheapside,
                    London.”

                         Yrs Truly
                              S. L. CLEMENS.

     The “relating circumstances” were these: At the abovementioned
     dinner there had been a roll-call of the distinguished guests
     present, and each name had been duly applauded. Clemens, conversing
     in a whisper with his neighbor, Sir John Bennett, did not give very
     close attention to the names, applauding mechanically with the
     others.

     Finally, a name was read that brought out a vehement hand-clapping.
     Mark Twain, not to be outdone in cordiality, joined vigorously, and
     kept his hands going even after the others finished. Then,
     remarking the general laughter, he whispered to Sir John: “Whose
     name was that we were just applauding?”

     “Mark Twain's.”

     We may believe that the “friendly support” of Sir John Bennett was
     welcome for the moment. But the incident could do him no harm; the
     diners regarded it as one of his jokes, and enjoyed him all the more
     for it.

     He was ready to go home by November, but by no means had he had
     enough of England. He really had some thought of returning there
     permanently. In a letter to Mrs. Crane, at Quarry Farm, he wrote:

     “If you and Theodore will come over in the Spring with Livy and me,
     and spend the summer you will see a country that is so beautiful
     that you will be obliged to believe in Fairyland..... and Theodore
     can browse with me among dusty old dens that look now as they looked
     five hundred years ago; and puzzle over books in the British Museum
     that were made before Christ was born; and in the customs of their
     public dinners, and the ceremonies of every official act, and the
     dresses of a thousand dignitaries, trace the speech and manners of
     all the centuries that have dragged their lagging decades over
     England since the Heptarchy fell asunder. I would a good deal
     rather live here if I could get the rest of you over.”

     In a letter home, to his mother and sister, we get a further picture
     of his enjoyment.

LONDON, Nov. 6, 1872.

MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,—I have been so everlasting busy that I couldn't write—and moreover I have been so unceasingly lazy that I couldn't have written anyhow. I came here to take notes for a book, but I haven't done much but attend dinners and make speeches. But have had a jolly good time and I do hate to go away from these English folks; they make a stranger feel entirely at home—and they laugh so easily that it is a comfort to make after-dinner speeches here. I have made hundreds of friends; and last night in the crush of the opening of the New Guild-hall Library and Museum, I was surprised to meet a familiar face every few steps. Nearly 4,000 people, of both sexes, came and went during the evening, so I had a good opportunity to make a great many new acquaintances.

Livy is willing to come here with me next April and stay several months—so I am going home next Tuesday. I would sail on Saturday, but that is the day of the Lord Mayor's annual grand state dinner, when they say 900 of the great men of the city sit down to table, a great many of them in their fine official and court paraphernalia, so I must not miss it. However, I may yet change my mind and sail Saturday. I am looking at a fine Magic lantern which will cost a deal of money, and if I buy it Sammy may come and learn to make the gas and work the machinery, and paint pictures for it on glass. I mean to give exhibitions for charitable purposes in Hartford, and charge a dollar a head.