have gone to be amused, not instructed, for when a man is known to have no settled convictions of his own he can’t convince other people.  They would have gone to be amused and that would have been a deep humiliation to you.  It could have been safe for you to appear only where you were unknown—­then many of your hearers would think you were in earnest.  And they would be right.  You are in earnest while your convictions are new.  But taking it by and large, you probably did best to discard that project altogether.  But I leave you to judge of that, for you are the worst judge I know of.

(Unfinished.)

That Mark Twain in many ways was hardly less child-like than his brother is now and again revealed in his letters.  He was of steadfast purpose, and he possessed the driving power which Orion Clemens lacked; but the importance to him of some of the smaller matters of life, as shown in a letter like the following, bespeaks a certain simplicity of nature which he never outgrew: 

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: 

Munich, Feb. 24. (1879) Dear old Joe,—­It was a mighty good letter, Joe—­and that idea of yours is a rattling good one.  But I have not sot down here to answer your letter,—­for it is down at my study,—­but only to impart some information.

For a months I had not shaved without crying.  I’d spend 3/4 of an hour whetting away on my hand—­no use, couldn’t get an edge.  Tried a razor strop-same result.  So I sat down and put in an hour thinking out the mystery.  Then it seemed plain—­to wit:  my hand can’t give a razor an edge, it can only smooth and refine an edge that has already been given.  I judge that a razor fresh from the hone is this shape V—­the long point being the continuation of the edge—­and that after much use the shape is this V—­the attenuated edge all worn off and gone.  By George I knew that was the explanation.  And I knew that a freshly honed and freshly strapped razor won’t cut, but after strapping on the hand as a final operation, it will cut.—­So I sent out for an oil-stone; none to be had, but messenger brought back a little piece of rock the size of a Safety-match box—­(it was bought in a shoemaker’s shop) bad flaw in middle of it, too, but I put 4 drops of fine Olive oil on it, picked out the razor marked “Thursday” because it was never any account and would be no loss if I spoiled it—­gave it a brisk and reckless honing for 10 minutes, then tried it on a hair—­it wouldn’t cut.  Then I trotted it through a vigorous 20-minute course on a razor-strap and tried it on a hair-it wouldn’t cut—­tried it on my face—­it made me cry—­gave it a 5-minute stropping on my hand, and my land, what an edge she had!  We thought we knew what sharp razors were when we were tramping in Switzerland, but it was a mistake—­they were dull beside this old Thursday razor of mine—­which I mean to name Thursday October Christian, in gratitude.  I took my whetstone, and in 20 minutes I put two more of my razors in splendid condition—­but I leave them in the box—­I never use any but Thursday O. C., and shan’t till its edge is gone—­and then I’ll know how to restore it without any delay.