Dear canon Wilberforce,—­It is 8 P.M.  During the past four hours I have not been able to take anything that did not belong to me; during all that time I have not been able to stretch a fact beyond the frontiers of truth try as I might, & meantime, not only my morals have moved the astonishment of all who have come in contact with me, but my manners have gained more compliments than they have been accustomed to.  This mystery is causing my family much alarm.  It is difficult to account for it.  I find I haven’t my own hat.  Have you developed any novelties of conduct since you left Mr. Murray’s, & have they been of a character to move the concern of your friends?  I think it must be this that has put me under this happy charm; but, oh dear!  I tremble for the other man!

                         Sincerely yours,
                                   S. L. Clemens.

Scarcely was this note on its way to Wilberforce when the following one arrived, having crossed it in transit: 

July 3, 1899.

Dear Mr. Clemens,—­I have been conscious of a vivacity and facility of expression this afternoon beyond the normal and I have just discovered the reason!!  I have seen the historic signature “Mark Twain” in my hat!!  Doubtless you have been suffering from a corresponding dullness & have wondered why.  I departed precipitately, the hat stood on my umbrella and was a new Lincoln & Bennett—­it fitted me exactly and I did not discover the mistake till I got in this afternoon.  Please forgive me.  If you should be passing this way to-morrow will you look in and change hats? or shall I send it to the hotel?

I am, very sincerely yrs.,
20 Dean’s Yard.  Basil Wilberforce.

Clemens was demanded by all the bohemian clubs, the White Friars, the Vagabonds, the Savage, the Beefsteak, and the Authors.  He spoke to them, and those “Mark Twain Evenings” have become historic occasions in each of the several institutions that gave him welcome.  At the Vagabonds he told them the watermelon story, and at the White Friars he reviewed the old days when he had been elected to that society; “days,” he said, “when all Londoners were talking about nothing else than that they had discovered Livingstone, and that the lost Sir Roger Tichborne had been found and they were trying him for it.”

At the Savage Club, too, he recalled old times and old friends, and particularly that first London visit, his days in the club twenty-seven years before.

“I was 6 feet 4 in those days,” he said.  “Now I am 5 feet 8 1/2 and daily diminishing in altitude, and the shrinkage of my principles goes on . . . .  Irving was here then, is here now.  Stanley is here, and Joe Hatton, but Charles Reade is gone and Tom Hood and Harry Lee and Canon Kingsley.  In those days you could have carried Kipling around in a lunch-basket; now he fills the world.  I was young and foolish then; now I am old and foolisher.”