Yet there are a few minor things that it seems worth while to remember.  Howells has told something of the Authors’ Reading given for the Longfellow Memorial, an entertainment managed by George Parsons Lathrop, though Howells justly claims the glory of having fixed the price of admission at five dollars.  Then he recalls a pleasing anecdote of Charles Eliot Norton, who introduced the attractions.

Norton presided, and when it came Clemens’s turn to read he introduced him with such exquisite praises as he best knew how to give, but before he closed he fell a prey to one of those lapses of tact which are the peculiar peril of people of the greatest tact.  He was reminded of Darwin’s delight in Mark Twain, and how when he came from his long day’s exhausting study, and sank into bed at midnight, he took up a volume of Mark Twain, whose books he always kept on a table beside him, and whatever had been his tormenting problem, or excess of toil, he felt secure of a good night’s rest from it.  A sort of blank ensued which Clemens filled in the only possible way.  He said he should always be glad he had contributed to the repose of that great man, to whom science owed so much, and then without waiting for the joy in every breast to burst forth, he began to read.

Howells tells of Mark Twain’s triumph on this occasion, and in a letter at the time he wrote:  “You simply straddled down to the footlights and took that house up in the hollow of your hand and tickled it.”

Howells adds that the show netted seventeen hundred dollars.  This was early in May.

Of literary work, beyond the war paper, the “Private History of a Campaign that Failed” (published December, 1885), Clemens appears to have done very little.  His thoughts were far too busy with plans for furthering the sale of the great military Memoir to follow literary ventures of his own.  At one time he was impelled to dictate an autobiography—­Grant’s difficulties in his dying hour suggesting this —­and he arranged with Redpath, who was no longer a lecture agent and understood stenography, to co-operate with him in the work.  He dictated a few chapters, but he was otherwise too much occupied to continue.  Also, he was unused to dictation, and found it hard and the result unsatisfactory.

Two open communications from Mark Twain that year deserve to be remembered.  One of these; unsigned, was published in the Century Magazine, and expressed the need for a “universal tinker,” the man who can accept a job in a large household or in a community as master of all trades, with sufficient knowledge of each to be ready to undertake whatever repairs are likely to be required in the ordinary household, such as—­“to put in windowpanes, mend gas leaks, jack-plane the edges of doors that won’t shut, keep the waste-pipe and other water-pipe joints, glue and otherwise repair havoc done in furniture, etc.”  The letter was signed X. Y. Z., and it brought replies from various parts of the world.  None of the applicants seemed universally qualified, but in Kansas City a business was founded on the idea, adopting “The Universal Tinker” as its firm name.