But Mark Twain’s views had undergone a radical change, and with characteristic dismissal of previous conditions he had forgotten that he had ever had any other views than those he now held.  Hingston was in London, and one evening, at a gathering, approached Clemens with outstretched hand.  But Clemens failed to see Hingston’s hand or to recognize him.  In after-years his conscience hurt him terribly for this.  He remembered it only with remorse and shame.  Once, in his old age, he spoke of it with deep sorrow.

LXXXVII

THE BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN

The book on England, which he had prepared for so carefully, was never written.  Hundreds of the stylographic pages were filled, and the duplicates sent home for the entertainment of Olivia Clemens, but the notes were not completed, and the actual writing was never begun.  There was too much sociability in London for one thing, and then he found that he could not write entertainingly of England without introducing too many personalities, and running the risk of offending those who had taken him into their hearts and homes.  In a word, he would have to write too seriously or not at all.

He began his memoranda industriously enough, and the volume might have been as charming and as valuable as any he has left behind.  The reader will hardly fail to find a few of the entries interesting.  They are offered here as examples of his daily observation during those early weeks of his stay, and to show somewhat of his purpose: 

An expatriate

There was once an American thief who fled his country and took refuge in England.  He dressed himself after the fashion of the Londoners, and taught his tongue the peculiarities of the London pronunciation and did his best in all ways to pass himself for a native.  But he did two fatal things:  he stopped at the Langham Hotel, and the first trip he took was to visit Stratford-on-Avon and the grave of Shakespeare.  These things betrayed his nationality.

Stanley and the queen

See the power a monarch wields!  When I arrived here, two weeks ago, the papers and geographers were in a fair way to eat poor Stanley up without salt or sauce.  The Queen says, “Come four hundred miles up into Scotland and sit at my luncheon-table fifteen minutes”; which, being translated, means, “Gentlemen, I believe in this man and take him under my protection”; and not another yelp is heard.

At the British museum

What a place it is!