if so many take an active part, where the peril is so dire, is this not evidence that the sympathizers who keep still and do not show their hands, are countless for multitudes?  Can you break the hearts of thousands of families with the awful Siberian exodus every year for generations and not eventually cover all Russia from limit to limit with bereaved fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters who secretly hate the perpetrator of this prodigious crime and hunger and thirst for his life?  Do you not believe that if your wife or your child or your father was exiled to the mines of Siberia for some trivial utterances wrung from a smarting spirit by the Czar’s intolerable tyranny, and you got a chance to kill him and did not do it, that you would always be ashamed to be in your own society the rest of your life?  Suppose that that refined and lovely Russian lady who was lately stripped bare before a brutal soldiery and whipped to death by the Czar’s hand in the person of the Czar’s creature had been your wife, or your daughter or your sister, and to-day the Czar should pass within reach of your hand, how would you feel—­and what would you do?  Consider, that all over vast Russia, from boundary to boundary, a myriad of eyes filled with tears when that piteous news came, and through those tears that myriad of eyes saw, not that poor lady, but lost darlings of their own whose fate her fate brought back with new access of grief out of a black and bitter past never to be forgotten or forgiven.

If I am a Swinburnian—­and clear to the marrow I am—­I hold human nature in sufficient honor to believe there are eighty million mute Russians that are of the same stripe, and only one Russian family that isn’t.

Marktwain.

Type-setter matters were going badly.  Clemens still had faith in Jones, and he had lost no grain of faith in the machine.  The money situation, however, was troublesome.  With an expensive establishment, and work of one sort or another still to be done on the machine, his income would not reach.  Perhaps Goodman had already given up hope, for he does not seem to have returned from California after the next letter was written—­a colorless letter —­in which we feel a note of resignation.  The last few lines are sufficient.

To Joe T. Goodman, in California: 

Dear Joe,--......  I wish you could get a day off and make those two or
three Californians buy those privileges, for I’m going to need money
before long.

I don’t know where the Senator is; but out on the Coast I reckon.

I guess we’ve got a perfect machine at last.  We never break a type, now,
and the new device for enabling the operator to touch the last letters
and justify the line simultaneously works, to a charm. 
                         With love to you both,
          
                                        mark