By the terms of my contract my publishers had to account to me for, 50,000 volumes per year for five years, and pay me for them whether they sold them or not.  It is at this point that you gentlemen come in, for it was your business to unload 250,000 volumes upon the public in five years if you possibly could.  Have you succeeded?  Yes, you have—­and more.  For in four years, with a year still to spare, you have sold the 250,000 volumes, and 240,000 besides.

Your sales have increased each year.  In the first year you sold 90,328; in the second year, 104,851; in the third, 133,975; in the fourth year —­which was last year—­you sold 160,000.  The aggregate for the four years is 500,000 volumes, lacking 11,000.

Of the oldest book, The Innocents Abroad,—­now forty years old—­you sold upward of 46,000 copies in the four years; of Roughing It—­now thirty-eight years old; I think—­you sold 40,334; of Tom Sawyer, 41,000.  And so on.

And there is one thing that is peculiarly gratifying to me:  the Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc is a serious book; I wrote it for love, and never expected it to sell, but you have pleasantly disappointed me in that matter.  In your hands its sale has increased each year.  In 1904 you sold 1726 copies; in 1905, 2445; in 1906, 5381; and last year, 6574.

“Mark Twain’s first appearance”

On October 5, 1906, Mr. Clemens, following a musical recital by his daughter in Norfolk, Conn., addressed her audience on the subject of stage-fright.  He thanked the people for making things as easy as possible for his daughter’s American debut as a contralto, and then told of his first experience before the public.

My heart goes out in sympathy to any one who is making his first appearance before an audience of human beings.  By a direct process of memory I go back forty years, less one month—­for I’m older than I look.

I recall the occasion of my first appearance.  San Francisco knew me then only as a reporter, and I was to make my bow to San Francisco as a lecturer.  I knew that nothing short of compulsion would get me to the theatre.  So I bound myself by a hard-and-fast contract so that I could not escape.  I got to the theatre forty-five minutes before the hour set for the lecture.  My knees were shaking so that I didn’t know whether I could stand up.  If there is an awful, horrible malady in the world, it is stage-fright-and seasickness.  They are a pair.  I had stage-fright then for the first and last time.  I was only seasick once, too.  It was on a little ship on which there were two hundred other passengers.  I—­was—­sick.  I was so sick that there wasn’t any left for those other two hundred passengers.

It was dark and lonely behind the scenes in that theatre, and I peeked through the little peekholes they have in theatre curtains and looked into the big auditorium.  That was dark and empty, too.  By-and-by it lighted up, and the audience began to arrive.