He would only say the man had suffered enough; as if the man had expiated his wrong, and he was not going to do anything to renew his penalty.  I found that very curious, very delicate.  His continued blame could not come to the sufferer’s knowledge, but he felt it his duty to forbear it.

It was one hundred years, that 19th of April, since the battles of Lexington and Concord, and there was to be a great celebration.  The Howellses had visited Hartford in March, and the Clemenses were invited to Cambridge for the celebration.  Only Clemens could go, which in the event proved a good thing perhaps; for when Clemens and Howells set out for Concord they did not go over to Boston to take the train, but decided to wait for it at Cambridge.  Apparently it did not occur to them that the train would be jammed the moment the doors were opened at the Boston station; but when it came along they saw how hopeless was their chance.  They had special invitations and passage from Boston, but these were only mockeries now.  It yeas cold and chilly, and they forlornly set out in search of some sort of a conveyance.  They tramped around in the mud and raw wind, but vehicles were either filled or engaged, and drivers and occupants were inclined to jeer at them.  Clemens was taken with an acute attack of indigestion, which made him rather dismal and savage.  Their effort finally ended with his trying to run down a tally-ho which was empty inside and had a party of Harvard students riding atop.  The students, who did not recognize their would-be fare, enjoyed the race.  They encouraged their pursuer, and perhaps their driver, with merriment and cheers.  Clemens was handicapped by having to run in the slippery mud, and soon “dropped by the wayside.”

“I am glad,” says Howells, “I cannot recall what he said when he came back to me.”

They hung about a little longer, then dragged themselves home, slipped into the house, and built up a fine, cheerful fire on the hearth.  They proposed to practise a deception on Mrs. Howells by pretending they had been to Concord and returned.  But it was no use.  Their statements were flimsy, and guilt was plainly written on their faces.  Howells recalls this incident delightfully, and expresses the belief that the humor of the situation was finally a greater pleasure to Clemens than the actual visit to Concord would have been.

Twichell did not have any such trouble in attending the celebration.  He had adventures (he was always having adventures), but they were of a more successful kind.  Clemens heard the tale of them when he returned to Hartford.  He wrote it to Howells: