Read Logan’s bosh, and try to imagine a burly and magnificent Indian, in General’s uniform, striking a heroic attitude and getting that stuff off in the style of a declaiming school-boy.

Please put the enclosed scraps in the drawer and I will scrap-book them.

I only staid at the Owl Club till 3 this morning and drank little or nothing.  Went to sleep without whisky.  Ich liebe dish.

Saml.

     But it is in the third letter that we get the climax.  On the same
     day he wrote a letter to Howells, which, in part, is very similar in
     substance and need not be included here.

     A paragraph, however, must not be omitted.

“Imagine what it was like to see a bullet-shredded old battle-flag reverently unfolded to the gaze of a thousand middle-aged soldiers, most of whom hadn’t seen it since they saw it advancing over victorious fields, when they were in their prime.  And imagine what it was like when Grant, their first commander, stepped into view while they were still going mad over the flag, and then right in the midst of it all somebody struck up, ’When we were marching through Georgia.’  Well, you should have heard the thousand voices lift that chorus and seen the tears stream down.  If I live a hundred years I shan’t ever forget these things, nor be able to talk about them ....  Grand times, my boy, grand times!”

At the great banquet Mark Twain’s speech had been put last on the program, to hold the house.  He had been invited to respond to the toast of “The Ladies,” but had replied that he had already responded to that toast more than once.  There was one class of the community, he said, commonly overlooked on these occasions—­the babies—­he would respond to that toast.  In his letter to Howells he had not been willing to speak freely of his personal triumph, but to Mrs. Clemens he must tell it all, and with that child-like ingenuousness which never failed him to his last day.

To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford: 

Chicago, Nov. 14 ’79. 
A little after 5 in the morning.

I’ve just come to my room, Livy darling, I guess this was the memorable night of my life.  By George, I never was so stirred since I was born.  I heard four speeches which I can never forget.  One by Emory Storrs, one by Gen. Vilas (O, wasn’t it wonderful!) one by Gen. Logan (mighty stirring), one by somebody whose name escapes me, and one by that splendid old soul, Col.  Bob Ingersoll,—­oh, it was just the supremest combination of English words that was ever put together since the world began.  My soul, how handsome he looked, as he stood on that table, in the midst of those 500 shouting men, and poured the molten silver from his lips!  Lord, what an organ is human speech when it is played by a master!  All these speeches may look dull in print, but how the lightning glared around them when they were uttered, and how the crowd roared in response!  It was a great night, a memorable night.  I am so richly repaid for my journey—­and how I did wish with all my whole heart that you were there to be lifted into the very seventh heaven of enthusiasm, as I was.  The army songs, the military music, the crashing applause —­Lord bless me, it was unspeakable.