The command was regarded as sufficient.  Clemens quoted the witticism later (in his first lecture), and it was often repeated in after-years, ascribed to Warner, Ward, and a dozen others.  Its origin was as here set down.

Under date of July 4 (1866), Mark Twain’s Sandwich Island note-book says: 

    Went to a ball 8.30 P.M.—­danced till 12.30; stopped at General Van
    Valkenburg’s room and talked with him and Mr. Burlingame and Ed
    Burlingame until 3 A.M.

From which we may conclude that he had altogether recovered.  A few days later the legation party had sailed for China and Japan, and on the 19th Clemens himself set out by a slow sailing-vessel to San Francisco.  They were becalmed and were twenty-five days making the voyage.  Captain Mitchell and others of the wrecked Hornet were aboard, and he put in a good deal of time copying their diaries and preparing a magazine article which, he believed, would prove his real entrance to the literary world.

The vessel lay almost perfectly still, day after day, and became a regular playground at sea.  Sundays they had services and Mark Twain led the choir.

“I hope they will have a better opinion of our music in heaven than I have down here,” he says in his notes.  “If they don’t, a thunderbolt will knock this vessel endways.”  It is perhaps worthy of mention that on the night of the 27th of July he records having seen another “splendidly colored, lunar rainbow.”  That he regarded this as an indication of future good-fortune is not surprising, considering the events of the previous year.

It was August 13th when he reached San Francisco, and the note-book entry of that day says: 

Home again.  No—­not home again—­in prison again, end all the wild sense of freedom gone.  The city seems so cramped and so dreary with toil and care and business anxiety.  God help me, I wish I were at sea again!

There were compensations, however.  He went over to Sacramento, and was abundantly welcomed.  It was agreed that, in addition to the twenty dollars allowed for each letter, a special bill should be made for the Hornet report.

“How much do you think it ought to be, Mark?” James Anthony asked.

“Oh, I’m a modest man; I don’t want the whole Union office.  Call it $100 a column.”

There was a general laugh.  The bill was made out at that figure, and he took it to the business office for payment.

“The cashier didn’t faint,” he wrote, many years later, “but he came rather near it.  He sent for the proprietors, and they only laughed in their jolly fashion, and said it was a robbery, but ’no matter, pay it.  It’s all right.’  The best men that ever owned a newspaper.”—­["My Debut as a Literary Person.”—­Collected works.]—­Though inferior to the descriptive writing which a year later would give him a world-wide fame, the Sandwich Island letters added greatly to