busily writing on his menu, with a well-feigned effect of preoccupation, and of Emerson, holding his elbows, and listening with a sort of Jovian oblivion of this nether world in that lapse of memory which saved him in those later years from so much bother.  Clemens must have dragged his joke to the climax and left it there, but I cannot say this from any sense of the fact.  Of what happened afterward at the table where the immense, the wholly innocent, the truly unimagined affront was offered, I have no longer the least remembrance.  I next remember being in a room of the hotel, where Clemens was not to sleep, but to toss in despair, and Charles Dudley Warner’s saying, in the gloom, “Well, Mark, you’re a funny fellow.”  It was as well as anything else he could have said, but Clemens seemed unable to accept the tribute.

I stayed the night with him, and the next morning, after a haggard breakfast, we drove about and he made some purchases of bric-a-brac for his house in Hartford, with a soul as far away from bric-a-brac as ever the soul of man was.  He went home by an early train, and he lost no time in writing back to the three divine personalities which he had so involuntarily seemed to flout.  They all wrote back to him, making it as light for him as they could.  I have heard that Emerson was a good deal mystified, and in his sublime forgetfulness asked, Who was this gentleman who appeared to think he had offered him some sort of annoyance!  But I am not sure that this is accurate.  What I am sure of is that Longfellow, a few days after, in my study, stopped before a photograph of Clemens and said, “Ah, he is a wag!” and nothing more.  Holmes told me, with deep emotion, such as a brother humorist might well feel, that he had not lost an instant in replying to Clemens’s letter, and assuring him that there had not been the least offence, and entreating him never to think of the matter again.  “He said that he was a fool, but he was God’s fool,” Holmes quoted from the letter, with a true sense of the pathos and the humor of the self-abasement.

To me Clemens wrote a week later, “It doesn’t get any better; it burns like fire.”  But now I understand that it was not shame that burnt, but rage for a blunder which he had so incredibly committed.  That to have conceived of those men, the most dignified in our literature, our civilization, as impersonable by three hoboes, and then to have imagined that he could ask them personally to enjoy the monstrous travesty, was a break, he saw too late, for which there was no repair.  Yet the time came, and not so very long afterward, when some mention was made of the incident as a mistake, and he said, with all his fierceness, “But I don’t admit that it was a mistake,” and it was not so in the minds of all witnesses at second hand.  The morning after the dreadful dinner there came a glowing note from Professor Child, who had read the newspaper report of it, praising Clemens’s burlesque as the richest