six of those glacial periods, with two million years or so between each.  They chased those poor orphans up and down the earth, from weather to weather, from tropic temperature to fifty degrees below.  They never knew what kind of weather was going to turn up next, and if they settled any place the whole continent suddenly sank from under them, and they had to make a scramble for dry land.  Sometimes a volcano would turn itself loose just as they got located.  They led that uncertain, strenuous existence for about twenty-five million years, always wondering what was going to happen next, never suspecting that it was just a preparation for man, who had to be done just so or there wouldn’t be any proper or harmonious place for him when he arrived, and then at last the monkey came, and everybody could see at a glance that man wasn’t far off now, and that was true enough.  The monkey went on developing for close upon five million years, and then he turned into a man—­to all appearances.

“It does look like a lot of fuss and trouble to go through to build anything, especially a human being, and nowhere along the way is there any evidence of where he picked up that final asset—­his imagination.  It makes him different from the others—­not any better, but certainly different.  Those earlier animals didn’t have it, and the monkey hasn’t it or he wouldn’t be so cheerful.”

[Paine records Twain’s thoughts in that magnificent essay:  “Was the World Made for Man” published long after his death in the group of essays under the title “Letters from the Earth.  There are minor additions in the published version:  “coal to fry the fish” ; and the remnants of life being chased from pole to pole “without a dry rag on them,”; and the “coat of paint” on top of the bulb on top the Eiffel Tower representing “man’s portion of this world’s history.”  Ed.]

He often held forth on the shortcomings of the human race—­always a favorite subject—­the incompetencies and imperfections of this final creation, in spite of, or because of, his great attribute—­the imagination.  Once (this was in the billiard-room) I started him by saying that whatever the conditions in other planets, there seemed no reason why life should not develop in each, adapted as perfectly to prevailing conditions as man is suited to conditions here.  He said: 

“Is it your idea, then, that man is perfectly adapted to the conditions of this planet?”

I began to qualify, rather weakly; but what I said did not matter.  He was off on his favorite theme.

“Man adapted to the earth?” he said.  “Why, he can’t sleep out-of-doors without freezing to death or getting the rheumatism or the malaria; he can’t keep his nose under water over a minute without being drowned; he can’t climb a tree without falling out and breaking his neck.  Why, he’s the poorest, clumsiest excuse of all the creatures that inhabit this earth.  He has got to be coddled and housed and swathed and bandaged