It was not long after this that he said: 

“I have made up my mind not to wear black any more, but white, and let the critics say what they will.”

So his tailor was sent for, and six creamy flannel and serge suits were ordered, made with the short coats, which he preferred, with a gray suit or two for travel, and he did not wear black again, except for evening dress and on special occasions.  It was a gratifying change, and though the newspapers made much of it, there was no one who was not gladdened by the beauty of his garments and their general harmony with his person.  He had never worn anything so appropriate or so impressive.

This departure of costume came along a week or two before the Washington trip, and when his bags were being packed for the excursion he was somewhat in doubt as to the propriety of bursting upon Washington in December in that snowy plumage.  I ventured: 

“This is a lobbying expedition of a peculiar kind, and does not seem to invite any half-way measures.  I should vote in favor of the white suit.”

I think Miss Clemens was for it, too.  She must have been or the vote wouldn’t have carried, though it was clear he strongly favored the idea.  At all events, the white suits came along.

We were off the following afternoon:  Howells, Robert Underwood Johnson, one of the Appletons, one of the Putnams, George Bowker, and others were on the train.  On the trip down in the dining-car there was a discussion concerning the copyrighting of ideas, which finally resolved itself into the possibility of originating a new one.  Clemens said: 

“There is no such thing as a new idea.  It is impossible.  We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.  We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations.  We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.”

We put up at the Willard, and in the morning drove over to the Congressional Library, where the copyright hearing was in progress.  There was a joint committee of the two Houses seated round a long table at work, and a number of spectators more or less interested in the bill, mainly, it would seem, men concerned with the protection of mechanical music-rolls.  The fact that this feature was mixed up with literature was not viewed with favor by most of the writers.  Clemens referred to the musical contingent as “those hand-organ men who ought to have a bill of their own.”

I should mention that early that morning Clemens had written this letter to Speaker Cannon: 

December 7, 1906.

Dear uncle Joseph,—­Please get me the thanks of the Congress—­not next week, but right away.  It is very necessary.  Do accomplish this for your affectionate old friend right away; by persuasion, if you can; by violence, if you must, for it is imperatively necessary that I get on the floor for two or three hours and talk to the members, man by man, in behalf of the support, encouragement, and protection of one of the nation’s most valuable assets and industries—­its literature.  I have arguments with me, also a barrel with liquid in it.