’The chambermaid is permitted to do what she pleases in this room, but she must never touch those plants and never touch those books on that table by that candle.  With those books I read myself to sleep every night.’  Those were your own books.”  I said:  “There is no question to my mind as to whether I should regard that as a compliment or not.  I do regard it as a very great compliment and a very high honor that that great mind, laboring for the whole human race, should rest itself on my books.  I am proud that he should read himself to sleep with them.”

Now, I could not keep that to myself—­I was so proud of it.  As soon as I got home to Hartford I called up my oldest friend—­and dearest enemy on occasion—­the Rev. Joseph Twichell, my pastor, and I told him about that, and, of course, he was full of interest and venom.  Those people who get no compliments like that feel like that.  He went off.  He did not issue any applause of any kind, and I did not hear of that subject for some time.  But when Mr. Darwin passed away from this life, and some time after Darwin’s Life and Letters came out, the Rev. Mr. Twichell procured an early copy of that work and found something in it which he considered applied to me.  He came over to my house—­it was snowing, raining, sleeting, but that did not make any difference to Twichell.  He produced the book, and turned over and over, until he came to a certain place, when he said:  “Here, look at this letter from Mr. Darwin to Sir Joseph Hooker.”  What Mr. Darwin said—­I give you the idea and not the very words—­was this:  I do not know whether I ought to have devoted my whole life to these drudgeries in natural history and the other sciences or not, for while I may have gained in one way I have lost in another.  Once I had a fine perception and appreciation of high literature, but in me that quality is atrophied.  “That was the reason,” said Mr. Twichell, “he was reading your books.”

Mr. Birrell has touched lightly—­very lightly, but in not an uncomplimentary way—­on my position in this world as a moralist.  I am glad to have that recognition, too, because I have suffered since I have been in this town; in the first place, right away, when I came here, from a newsman going around with a great red, highly displayed placard in the place of an apron.  He was selling newspapers, and there were two sentences on that placard which would have been all right if they had been punctuated; but they ran those two sentences together without a comma or anything, and that would naturally create a wrong impression, because it said, “Mark Twain arrives Ascot Cup stolen.”  No doubt many a person was misled by those sentences joined together in that unkind way.  I have no doubt my character has suffered from it.  I suppose I ought to defend my character, but how can I defend it?  I can say here and now —­and anybody can see by my face that I am sincere, that I speak the truth —­that I have never seen that Cup.