When a writer in a New York newspaper said, “Let us go outside the realm of practical politics next time in choosing our candidates for the Presidency,” and asked, “Who is our ablest and most conspicuous private citizen?” another editorial writer, Joseph Hollister, replied that Mark Twain was “the greatest man of his day in private life, and entitled to the fullest measure of recognition.”

But Clemens was without political ambitions.  He knew the way of such things too well.  When Hollister sent him the editorial he replied only with a word of thanks, and did not, even in jest, encourage that tiny seed of a Presidential boom.  One would like to publish many of the beautiful letters received during this period, for they are beautiful, most of them, however illiterate in form, however discouraging in length —­beautiful in that they overflow with the writers’ sincerity and gratitude.

So many of them came from children, usually without the hope of a reply, some signed only with initials, that the writers might not be open to the suspicion of being seekers for his autograph.  Almost more than any other reward, Mark Twain valued this love of the children.

A department in the St. Nicholas Magazine offered a prize for a caricature drawing of some well-known man.  There were one or two of certain prominent politicians and capitalists, and there was literally a wheelbarrow load of Mark Twain.  When he was informed of this he wrote:  “No tribute could have pleased me more than that—­the friendship of the children.”

Tributes came to him in many forms.  In his native State it was proposed to form a Mark Twain Association, with headquarters at Hannibal, with the immediate purpose of having a week set apart at the St. Louis World’s Fair, to be called the Mark Twain week, with a special Mark Twain day, on which a national literary convention would be held.  But when his consent was asked, and his co-operation invited, he wrote characteristically: 

It is indeed a high compliment which you offer me, in naming an association after me and in proposing the setting apart of a Mark Twain day at the great St. Louis Fair, but such compliments are not proper for the living; they are proper and safe for the dead only.  I value the impulse which moves you to tender me these honors.  I value it as highly as any one can, and am grateful for it, but I should stand in a sort of terror of the honors themselves.  So long as we remain alive we are not safe from doing things which, however righteously and honorably intended, can wreck our repute and extinguish our friendships.

I hope that no society will be named for me while I am still alive, for I might at some time or other do something which would cause its members to regret having done me that honor.  After I shall have joined the dead I shall follow the custom of those people, and be guilty of no conduct that can wound any friend; but until that time shall come I shall be a doubtful quantity, like the rest of our race.