It was that spring that Gorky and Tchaikowski, the Russian revolutionists, came to America hoping to arouse interest in their cause.  The idea of the overthrow of the Russian dynasty was pleasant to Mark Twain.  Few things would have given him greater comfort than to have known that a little more than ten years would see the downfall of Russian imperialism.  The letter which follows was a reply to an invitation from Tchaikowski, urging him to speak at one of the meetings.

Dear Mr. Tchaikowski,—­I thank you for the honor of the invitation, but I am not able to accept it, because on Thursday evening I shall be presiding at a meeting whose object is to find remunerative work for certain classes of our blind who would gladly support themselves if they had the opportunity.

My sympathies are with the Russian revolution, of course.  It goes without saying.  I hope it will succeed, and now that I have talked with you I take heart to believe it will.  Government by falsified promises; by lies, by treacheries, and by the butcher-knife for the aggrandizement of a single family of drones and its idle and vicious kin has been borne quite long enough in Russia, I should think, and it is to be hoped that the roused nation, now rising in its strength, will presently put an end to it and set up the republic in its place.  Some of us, even of the white headed, may live to see the blessed day when Czars and Grand Dukes will be as scarce there as I trust they are in heaven. 
                         Most sincerely yours,
          
                                        mark Twain.

There came another summer at Dublin, New Hampshire, this time in the fine Upton residence on the other slope of Monadnock, a place of equally beautiful surroundings, and an even more extended view.  Clemens was at this time working steadily on his so-called Autobiography, which was not that, in fact, but a series of remarkable chapters, reminiscent, reflective, commentative, written without any particular sequence as to time or subject-matter.  He dictated these chapters to a stenographer, usually in the open air, sitting in a comfortable rocker or pacing up and down the long veranda that faced a vast expanse of wooded slope and lake and distant blue mountains.  It became one of the happiest occupations of his later years.

To W. D. Howells, in Maine: 

Dublin, Sunday, June 17, ’06. 
Dear Howells,--.....  The dictating goes lazily and pleasantly on.   With
intervals.   I find that I have been at it, off and on, nearly two hours a
day for 155 days, since Jan. 9.   To be exact I’ve dictated 75 hours in 80
days and loafed 75 days.   I’ve added 60,000 words in the month that I’ve
been here; which indicates that I’ve dictated during 20 days of that
time—­40 hours, at an average of 1,500 words an hour.   It’s a plenty, and
I am satisfied.

There’s a good deal of “fat” I’ve dictated, (from Jan. 9) 210,000 words, and the “fat” adds about 50,000 more.