At a Mark Twain memorial meeting (November 30, 1910), where the few who were left of his old companions told over quaint and tender memories, George Cable recalled their reading days together and told of Mark Twain’s conscientious effort to do his best, to be worthy of himself, regardless of all other concerns.  He told how when they had been traveling for a while Clemens seemed to realize that he was only giving the audience nonsense; making them laugh at trivialities which they would forget before they had left the entertainment hall.  Cable said that up to that time he had supposed Clemens’s chief thought was the entertainment of the moment, and that if the audience laughed he was satisfied.  He told how he had sat in the wings, waiting his turn, and heard the tides of laughter gather and roll forward and break against the footlights, time and time again, and how he had believed his colleague to be glorying in that triumph.  What was his surprise, then, on the way to the hotel in the carriage, when Clemens groaned and seemed writhing in spirit and said: 

“Oh, Cable, I am demeaning myself.  I am allowing myself to be a mere buffoon.  It’s ghastly.  I can’t endure it any longer.”

Cable added that all that night and the next day Mark Twain devoted himself to the study and rehearsal of selections which were justified not only as humor, but as literature and art.

A good many interesting and amusing things would happen on such a tour.  Many of these are entirely forgotten, of course, but of others certain memoranda have been preserved.  Grover Cleveland had been elected when they set out on their travels, but was still holding his position in Albany as Governor of New York.  When they reached Albany Cable and Clemens decided to call on him.  They drove to the Capitol and were shown into the Governor’s private office.  Cleveland made them welcome, and, after greetings, said to Clemens: 

“Mr. Clemens, I was a fellow-citizen of yours in Buffalo a good many months some years ago, but you never called on me then.  How do you explain this?”

Clemens said:  “Oh, that is very simple to answer, your Excellency.  In Buffalo you were a sheriff.  I kept away from the sheriff as much as possible, but you’re Governor now, and on the way to the Presidency.  It’s worth while coming to see you.”

Clemens meantime had been resting, half sitting, on the corner of the Executive desk.  He leaned back a little, and suddenly about a dozen young men opened various doors, filed in and stood at attention, as if waiting for orders.

No one spoke for a moment; then the Governor said to this collection of attendants: 

“You are dismissed, young gentlemen.  Your services are not required.  Mr. Clemens is sitting on the bells.”

In Buffalo, when Clemens appeared on the stage, he leisurely considered the audience for a moment; then he said: 

“I miss a good many faces.  They have gone—­gone to the tomb, to the gallows, or to the White House.  All of us are entitled to at least one of these distinctions, and it behooves us to be wise and prepare for all.”