“There is a splendid chance open to you.  I know a man—­a prominent man —­who has written a book that will go like wildfire; a book that arraigns the Standard Oil fiends, and gives them unmitigated hell, individual by individual.  It is the very book for you to publish; there is a fortune in it, and I can put you in communication with the author.”

I wanted to say: 

“The only man I care for in the world; the only man I would give a damn for; the only man who is lavishing his sweat and blood to save me and mine from starvation and shame, is a Standard Oil fiend.  If you know me, you know whether I want the book or not.”

But I didn’t say that.  I said I didn’t want any book; I wanted to get out of the publishing business and out of all business, and was here for that purpose and would accomplish it if I could.

But there’s enough.  I shall be asleep by 3, and I don’t need much sleep, because I am never drowsy or tired these days.  Dear, dear Susy my strength reproaches me when I think of her and you, my darling.

Saml.

But even so able a man as Henry Rogers could not accomplish the impossible.  The affairs of the Webster Company were hopeless, the business was not worth saving.  By Mr. Rogers’s advice an assignment was made April, 18, 1894.  After its early spectacular success less than ten years had brought the business to failure.  The publication of the Grant memoirs had been its only great achievement.

Clemens would seem to have believed that the business would resume, and for a time Rogers appears to have comforted him in his hope, but we cannot believe that it long survived.  Young Hall, who had made such a struggle for its salvation, was eager to go on, but he must presently have seen the futility of any effort in that direction.

     Of course the failure of Mark Twain’s firm made a great stir in the
     country, and it is easy to understand that loyal friends would rally
     in his behalf.

To Mrs. Clemens, in Paris: 

April 22, ’94.  Dear old darling, we all think the creditors are going to allow us to resume business; and if they do we shall pull through and pay the debts.  I am prodigiously glad we made an assignment.  And also glad that we did not make it sooner.  Earlier we should have made a poor showing; but now we shall make a good one.

I meet flocks of people, and they all shake me cordially by the hand and say “I was so sorry to hear of the assignment, but so glad you did it.  It was around, this long time, that the concern was tottering, and all your friends were afraid you would delay the assignment too long.”

John Mackay called yesterday, and said, “Don’t let it disturb you, Sam —­we all have to do it, at one time or another; it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

One stranger out in New York State sent me a dollar bill and thought he would like to get up a dollar-subscription for me.  And Poultney Bigelow’s note came promptly, with his check for $1,000.  I had been meeting him every day at the Club and liking him better and better all the time.  I couldn’t take his money, of course, but I thanked him cordially for his good will.