see why a kaleidoscope shouldn’t enjoy itself as much as a telescope, nor a grindstone have as good a time as a whetstone, nor a barometer as good a time as a yardstick.  I don’t feel like girding at you any more about fickleness of purpose, because I recognize and realize at last that it is incurable; but before I learned to accept this truth, each new weekly project of yours possessed the power of throwing me into the most exhausting and helpless convulsions of profanity.  But fire away, now!  Your magic has lost its might.  I am able to view your inspirations dispassionately and judicially, now, and say “This one or that one or the other one is not up to your average flight, or is above it, or below it.”

And so, without passion, or prejudice, or bias of any kind, I sit in judgment upon your lecture project, and say it was up to your average, it was indeed above it, for it had possibilities in it, and even practical ones.  While I was not sorry you abandoned it, I should not be sorry if you had stuck to it and given it a trial.  But on the whole you did the wise thing to lay it aside, I think, because a lecture is a most easy thing to fail in; and at your time of life, and in your own town, such a failure would make a deep and cruel wound in your heart and in your pride.  It was decidedly unwise in you to think for a moment of coming before a community who knew you, with such a course of lectures; because Keokuk is not unaware that you have been a Swedenborgian, a Presbyterian, a Congregationalist, and a Methodist (on probation), and that just a year ago you were an infidel.  If Keokuk had gone to your lecture course, it would 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.