But Clemens, badly as he was beginning to need the money, put this temptation behind him.  His chief diversion these days was in gratuitous appearances.  He had made up his mind not to read or lecture again for pay, but he seemed to take a peculiar enjoyment in doing these things as a benefaction.  That he was beginning to need the money may have added a zest to the joy of his giving.  He did not respond to all invitations; he could have been traveling constantly had he done so.  He consulted with Mrs. Clemens and gave himself to the cause that seemed most worthy.  In January Col.  Richard Malcolm Johnston was billed to give a reading with Thomas Nelson Page in Baltimore.  Page’s wife fell ill and died, and Colonel Johnston, in extremity, wired Charles Dudley Warner to come in Page’s place.  Warner, unable to go, handed the invitation to Clemens, who promptly wired that he would come.  They read to a packed house, and when the audience was gone and the returns had been counted an equal division of the profits was handed to each of the authors.  Clemens pushed his share over to Johnston, saying: 

“That’s yours, Colonel.  I’m not reading for money these days.”

Colonel Johnston, to whom the sum was important, tried to thank him, but he only said: 

“Never mind, Colonel, it only gave me pleasure to do you that little favor.  You can pass it on some day.”

As a matter of fact, hard put to it as he was for funds, Clemens at this time regarded himself as a potential multi-millionaire.  The type-setting machine which for years had been sapping his financial strength was believed to be perfected, and ship-loads of money were waiting in the offing.  However, we shall come to this later.

Clemens read for the cadets at West Point and for a variety of institutions and on many special occasions.  He usually gave chapters from his Yankee, now soon to be finished, chapters generally beginning with the Yankee’s impression of the curious country and its people, ending with the battle of the Sun-belt, when the Yankee and his fifty-four adherents were masters of England, with twenty-five thousand dead men lying about them.  He gave this at West Point, including the chapter where the Yankee has organized a West Point of his own in King Arthur’s reign.

In April, ’89, he made an address at a dinner given to a victorious baseball team returning from a tour of the world by way of the Sandwich Islands.  He was on familiar ground there.  His heart was in his words.  He began: 

I have been in the Sandwich Islands-twenty-three years ago—­that peaceful land, that beautiful land, that far-off home of solitude, and soft idleness, and repose, and dreams, where life is one long slumberous Sabbath, the climate one long summer day, and the good that die experience no change, for they but fall asleep in one heaven and wake up in another.  And these boys have played baseball there!—­baseball, which is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression, of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the living, tearing, booming nineteenth, the mightiest of all the centuries!

He told of the curious island habits for his hearers’ amusement, but at the close the poetry of his memories once more possessed him: