Mark Twain, A Biography 1875-1886 | Page 4

now. You will never be so capable again."
Of course this was only a theory of Hay's, a rule where rules do not
apply, where in the end the problem resolves itself into a question of
individualities. John Hay did as great work after forty as ever before, so

did Mark Twain, and both of them gained in intellectual strength and
public honor to the very end.
Yet it must have seemed to many who knew him, and to himself, like
enough, that Mark Twain at forty had reached the pinnacle of his fame
and achievement. His name was on every lip; in whatever environment
observation and argument were likely to be pointed with some saying
or anecdote attributed, rightly or otherwise, to Mark Twain. "As Mark
Twain says," or, "You know that story of Mark Twain's," were
universal and daily commonplaces. It was dazzling, towering fame, not
of the best or most enduring kind as yet, but holding somewhere within
it the structure of immortality.
He was in a constant state of siege, besought by all varieties and
conditions of humanity for favors such as only human need and
abnormal ingenuity can invent. His ever-increasing mail presented a
marvelous exhibition of the human species on undress parade. True,
there were hundreds of appreciative tributes from readers who spoke
only out of a heart's gratitude; but there were nearly as great a number
who came with a compliment, and added a petition, or a demand, or a
suggestion, usually unwarranted, often impertinent. Politicians, public
speakers, aspiring writers, actors, elocutionists, singers, inventors (most
of them he had never seen or heard of) cheerfully asked him for a
recommendation as to their abilities and projects.
Young men wrote requesting verses or sentiments to be inscribed in
young ladies' autograph albums; young girls wrote asking him to write
the story of his life, to be used as a school composition; men starting
obscure papers coolly invited him to lend them his name as editor,
assuring him that he would be put to no trouble, and that it would help
advertise his books; a fruitful humorist wrote that he had invented some
five thousand puns, and invited Mark Twain to father this terrific
progeny in book form for a share of the returns. But the list is endless.
He said once:
"The symbol of the race ought to be a human being carrying an ax, for
every human being has one concealed about him somewhere, and is
always seeking the opportunity to grind it."
Even P. T. Barnum had an ax, the large ax of advertising, and he was
perpetually trying to grind it on Mark Twain's reputation; in other
words, trying to get him to write something that would help to

popularize "The Greatest Show on Earth."
There were a good many curious letters-letters from humorists,
would-be and genuine. A bright man in Duluth sent him an old Allen
"pepper-box" revolver with the statement that it had been found among
a pile of bones under a tree, from the limb of which was suspended a
lasso and a buffalo skull; this as evidence that the weapon was the
genuine Allen which Bemis had lost on that memorable Overland
buffalo-hunt. Mark Twain enjoyed that, and kept the old pepper-box as
long as he lived. There were letters from people with fads; letters from
cranks of every description; curious letters even from friends. Reginald
Cholmondeley, that lovely eccentric of Condover Hall, where Mr. and
Mrs. Clemens had spent some halcyon days in 1873, wrote him
invitations to be at his castle on a certain day, naming the hour, and
adding that he had asked friends to meet him. Cholmondeley had a
fancy for birds, and spared nothing to improve his collection. Once he
wrote Clemens asking him to collect for him two hundred and five
American specimens, naming the varieties and the amount which he
was to pay for each. Clemens was to catch these birds and bring them
over to England, arriving at Condover on a certain day, when there
would be friends to meet him, of course.
Then there was a report which came now and then from another
English castle--the minutes of a certain "Mark Twain Club," all neatly
and elaborately written out, with the speech of each member and the
discussions which had followed--the work, he found out later, of
another eccentric; for there was no Mark Twain Club, the reports being
just the mental diversion of a rich young man, with nothing else to
do.--[In Following the Equator Clemens combined these two pleasant
characters in one story, with elaborations.]
Letters came queerly addressed. There is one envelope still in existence
which bears Clemens's name in elaborate design and a very good
silhouette likeness, the work of some talented artist. "Mark Twain,
United