I am deeply grieved, & I mourn with the nation this loss which is
    irreparable.  My friendship with Mr. Hay & my admiration of him
    endured 38 years without impairment.

It was only a little earlier that he had written Hay an anonymous letter, a copy of which he preserved.  It here follows: 

Dear & honored sir,—­I never hear any one speak of you & of your long roll of illustrious services in other than terms of pride & praise—­& out of the heart.  I think I am right in believing you to be the only man in the civil service of the country the cleanness of whose motives is never questioned by any citizen, & whose acts proceed always upon a broad & high plane, never by accident or pressure of circumstance upon a narrow or low one.  There are majorities that are proud of more than one of the nation’s great servants, but I believe, & I think I know, that you are the only one of whom the entire nation is proud.  Proud & thankful.

    Name & address are lacking here, & for a purpose:  to leave you no
    chance to make my words a burden to you and a reproach to me, who
    would lighten your burdens if I could, not add to them.

Irving died in October, and Clemens ordered a wreath for his funeral.  To MacAlister he wrote: 

    I profoundly grieve over Irving’s death.  It is another reminder. 
    My section of the procession has but a little way to go.  I could
    not be very sorry if I tried.

Mark Twain, nearing seventy, felt that there was not much left for him to celebrate; and when Colonel Harvey proposed a birthday gathering in his honor, Clemens suggested a bohemian assembly over beer and sandwiches in some snug place, with Howells, Henry Rogers, Twichell, Dr. Rice, Dr. Edward Quintard, Augustus Thomas, and such other kindred souls as were still left to answer the call.  But Harvey had something different in view:  something more splendid even than the sixty-seventh birthday feast, more pretentious, indeed, than any former literary gathering.  He felt that the attainment of seventy years by America’s most distinguished man of letters and private citizen was a circumstance which could not be moderately or even modestly observed.  The date was set five days later than the actual birthday—­that is to say, on December 5th, in order that it might not conflict with the various Thanksgiving holidays and occasions.  Delmonico’s great room was chosen for the celebration of it, and invitations were sent out to practically every writer of any distinction in America, and to many abroad.  Of these nearly two hundred accepted, while such as could not come sent pathetic regrets.