In the course of time he was convalescent, and when contagion was no longer to be feared guests were invited in for his entertainment.  At one of these gatherings, Cable produced a curious book, which he said had been lent to him by Prof.  Francis Bacon, of New Haven, as a great rarity.  It was a little privately printed pamphlet written by a Southern youth, named S. Watson Wolston, a Yale student of 1845, and was an absurd romance of the hyperflorid, grandiloquent sort, entitled, “Love Triumphant, or the Enemy Conquered.”  Its heroine’s name was Ambulinia, and its flowery, half-meaningless periods and impossible situations delighted Clemens beyond measure.  He begged Cable to lend it to him, to read at the Saturday Morning Club, declaring that he certainly must own the book, at whatever cost.  Henry C. Robinson, who was present, remembered having seen a copy in his youth, and Twichell thought he recalled such a book on sale in New Haven during his college days.  Twichell said nothing as to any purpose in the matter; but somewhat later, being in New Haven, he stepped into the old book-store and found the same proprietor, who remembered very well the book and its author.  Twichell rather fearfully asked if by any chance a copy of it might still be obtained.

“Well,” was the answer, “I undertook to put my cellar in order the other day, and found about a cord of them down there.  I think I can supply you.”

Twichell took home six of the books at ten cents each, and on their first spring walk to Talcott’s Tower casually mentioned to Clemens the quest for the rare Ambulinia.  But Clemens had given up the pursuit.  New York dealers had reported no success in the matter.  The book was no longer in existence.

“What would you give for a copy?” asked.  Twichell.

Clemens became excited.

“It isn’t a question of price,” he said; “that would be for the owner to set if I could find him.”

Twichell drew a little package from his pocket.

“Well, Mark,” he said, “here are six copies of that book, to begin with.  If that isn’t enough, I can get you a wagon-load.”

It was enough.  But it did not deter Clemens in his purpose, which was to immortalize the little book by pointing out its peculiar charms.  He did this later, and eventually included the entire story, with comments, in one of his own volumes.

Clemens and Twichell did not always walk that spring.  The early form of bicycle, the prehistoric high-wheel, had come into vogue, and they each got one and attempted its conquest.  They practised in the early morning hours on Farmington Avenue, which was wide and smooth, and they had an instructor, a young German, who, after a morning or two, regarded Mark Twain helplessly and said: 

“Mr. Clemens, it’s remarkable—­you can fall off of a bicycle more different ways than the man that invented it.”