3000 Years
among the microbes

By a Microbe

With notes
added by the same Hand
7000 years later

Translated from the Original
Microbic
by

Mark Twain

His inability to reproduce faces in his mind’s eye he mourned as an increasing calamity.  Photographs were lifeless things, and when he tried to conjure up the faces of his dead they seemed to drift farther out of reach; but now and then kindly sleep brought to him something out of that treasure-house where all our realities are kept for us fresh and fair, perhaps for a day when we may claim them again.  Once he wrote to Mrs. Crane: 

Susy dear,—­I have had a lovely dream.  Livy, dressed in black, was sitting up in my bed (here) at my right & looking as young & sweet as she used to when she was in health.  She said, “What is the name of your sweet sister?” I said, “Pamela.”  “Oh yes, that is it, I thought it was—­(naming a name which has escaped me) won’t you write it down for me?” I reached eagerly for a pen & pad, laid my hands upon both, then said to myself, “It is only a dream,” and turned back sorrowfully & there she was still.  The conviction flamed through me that our lamented disaster was a dream, & this a reality.  I said, “How blessed it is, how blessed it is, it was all a dream, only a dream!” She only smiled and did not ask what dream I meant, which surprised me.  She leaned her head against mine & kept saying, “I was perfectly sure it was a dream; I never would have believed it wasn’t.”  I think she said several things, but if so they are gone from my memory.  I woke & did not know I had been dreaming.  She was gone.  I wondered how she could go without my knowing it, but I did not spend any thought upon that.  I was too busy thinking of how vivid & real was the dream that we had lost her, & how unspeakably blessed it was to find that it was not true & that she was still ours & with us.

He had the orchestrelle moved to Dublin, although it was no small undertaking, for he needed the solace of its harmonies; and so the days passed along, and he grew stronger in body and courage as his grief drifted farther behind him.  Sometimes, in the afternoon or in the evening; when the neighbors had come in for a little while, he would walk up and down and talk in his old, marvelous way of all the things on land and sea, of the past and of the future, “Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,” of the friends he had known and of the things he had done, of the sorrow and absurdities of the world.

It was the same old scintillating, incomparable talk of which Howells once said: 

“We shall never know its like again.  When he dies it will die with him.”

It was during the summer at Dublin that Clemens and Rogers together made up a philanthropic ruse on Twichell.  Twichell, through his own prodigal charities, had fallen into debt, a fact which Rogers knew.  Rogers was a man who concealed his philanthropies when he could, and he performed many of them of which the world will never know:  In this case he said: