Either one of us could have thought of a single slipper, but it took both of us to think of two slippers.  In fact, one of us did think of one slipper, and then, quick as a flash, the other of the other one.  It shows how wonderful the human mind is....

Gillette embroidered his slipper with astonishing facility and splendor, but I have been a long time pulling through with mine.  You see, it was my very first attempt at art, and I couldn’t rightly get the hang of it along at first.  And then I was so busy that I couldn’t get a chance to work at it at home, and they wouldn’t let me embroider on the cars; they said it made the other passengers afraid.  They didn’t like the light that flared into my eye when I had an inspiration.  And even the most fair-minded people doubted me when I explained what it was I was making—­especially brakemen.  Brakemen always swore at it and carried on, the way ignorant people do about art.  They wouldn’t take my word that it was a slipper; they said they believed it was a snow-shoe that had some kind of disease.

He went on to explain and elucidate the pattern of the slipper, and how Dr. Root had come in and insisted on taking a hand in it, and how beautiful it was to see him sit there and tell Mrs. Clemens what had been happening while they were away during the summer, holding the slipper up toward the end of his nose, imagining the canvas was a “subject” with a scalp-wound, working with a “lovely surgical stitch,” never hesitating a moment in his talk except to say “Ouch!” when he stuck himself with the needle.

Take the slippers and wear them next your heart, Elsie dear; for every stitch in them is a testimony of the affection which two of your loyalest friends bear you.  Every single stitch cost us blood.  I’ve got twice as many pores in me now as I used to have; and you would never believe how many places you can stick a needle in yourself until you go into the embroidery line and devote yourself to art.

Do not wear these slippers in public, dear; it would only excite
envy; and, as like as not, somebody would try to shoot you.

Merely use them to assist you in remembering that among the many,
many people who think all the world of you is your friend,

Marktwain.

The play of “The Prince and the Pauper,” dramatized by Mrs. Richardson and arranged for the stage by David Belasco, was produced at the Park Theater, Philadelphia, on Christmas Eve.  It was a success, but not a lavish one.  The play was well written and staged, and Elsie Leslie was charming enough in her parts, but in the duality lay the difficulty.  The strongest scenes in the story had to be omitted when one performer played both Tom Canty and the little Prince.  The play came to New York—­to the Broadway Theater—­and was well received.  On the opening night there Mark Twain made a speech, in which he said that the presentation of “The Prince and the Pauper” realized a dream which fifteen years before had possessed him all through a long down-town tramp, amid the crowds and confusion of Broadway.  In Elsie Leslie, he said, he had found the embodiment of his dream, and to her he offered homage as the only prince clothed in a divine right which was not rags and sham—­the divine right of an inborn supremacy in art.