The library at the British Museum I find particularly astounding.  I have read there hours together, and hardly made an impression on it.  I revere that library.  It is the author’s friend.  I don’t care how mean a book is, it always takes one copy. [A copy of every book printed in Great Britain must by law be sent to the British Museum, a law much complained of by publishers.] And then every day that author goes there to gaze at that book, and is encouraged to go on in the good work.  And what a touching sight it is of a Saturday afternoon to see the poor, careworn clergymen gathered together in that vast reading—­room cabbaging sermons for Sunday.  You will pardon my referring to these things.

Everything in this monster city interests me, and I cannot keep from talking, even at the risk of being instructive.  People here seem always to express distances by parables.  To a stranger it is just a little confusing to be so parabolic—­so to speak.  I collar a citizen, and I think I am going to get some valuable information out of him.  I ask him how far it is to Birmingham, and he says it is twenty-one shillings and sixpence.  Now we know that doesn’t help a man who is trying to learn.  I find myself down-town somewhere, and I want to get some sort of idea where I am—­being usually lost when alone—­and I stop a citizen and say:  “How far is it to Charing Cross?” “Shilling fare in a cab,” and off he goes.  I suppose if I were to ask a Londoner how far it, is from the sublime to the ridiculous, he would try to express it in coin.  But I am trespassing upon your time with these geological statistics and historical reflections.  I will not longer keep you from your orgies.  ’Tis a real pleasure for me to be here, and I thank you for it.  The name of the Savage Club is associated in my mind with the kindly interest and the friendly offices which you lavished upon an old friend of mine who came among you a stranger, and you opened your English hearts to him and gave him welcome and a home—­Artemus Ward.  Asking that you will join me, I give you his memory.

PRINCETON

Mr. Clemens spent several days in May, 1901, in Princeton, New Jersey, as the guest of Lawrence Hutton.  He gave a reading one evening before a large audience composed of university students and professors.  Before the reading Mr. Clemens said: 

I feel exceedingly surreptitious in coming down here without an announcement of any kind.  I do not want to see any advertisements around, for the reason that I’m not a lecturer any longer.  I reformed long ago, and I break over and commit this sin only just one time this year:  and that is moderate, I think, for a person of my disposition.  It is not my purpose to lecture any more as long as I live.  I never intend to stand up on a platform any more—­unless by the request of a sheriff or something like that.

THE ST. LOUIS HARBOR-BOAT “MARK TWAIN”