me rather than I it.  But however this immaterial matter may be, I am glad to remember that I thoroughly liked Tom Sawyer, and said so with every possible amplification.  Very likely, I also made my suggestions for its improvement; I could not have been a real critic without that; and I have no doubt they were gratefully accepted and, I hope, never acted upon.  I went with him to the horse-car station in Harvard Square, as my frequent wont was, and put him aboard a car with his Ms. in his hand, stayed and reassured, so far as I counted, concerning it.  I do not know what his misgivings were; perhaps they were his wife’s misgivings, for she wished him to be known not only for the wild and boundless humor that was in him, but for the beauty and tenderness and “natural piety”; and she would not have had him judged by a too close fidelity to the rude conditions of Tom Sawyer’s life.  This is the meaning that I read into the fact of his coming to me with those doubts.

XIII.

Clemens had then and for many years the habit of writing to me about what he was doing, and still more of what he was experiencing.  Nothing struck his imagination, in or out of the daily routine, but he wished to write me of it, and he wrote with the greatest fulness and a lavish dramatization, sometimes to the length of twenty or forty pages, so that I have now perhaps fifteen hundred pages of his letters.  They will no doubt some day be published, but I am not even referring to them in these records, which I think had best come to the reader with an old man’s falterings and uncertainties.  With his frequent absences and my own abroad, and the intrusion of calamitous cares, the rich tide of his letters was more and more interrupted.  At times it almost ceased, and then it would come again, a torrent.  In the very last weeks of his life he burst forth, and, though too weak himself to write, he dictated his rage with me for recommending to him a certain author whose truthfulness he could not deny, but whom he hated for his truthfulness to sordid and ugly conditions.  At heart Clemens was romantic, and he would have had the world of fiction stately and handsome and whatever the real world was not; but he was not romanticistic, and he was too helplessly an artist not to wish his own work to show life as he had seen it.  I was preparing to rap him back for these letters when I read that he had got home to die; he would have liked the rapping back.

He liked coming to Boston, especially for those luncheons and dinners in which the fertile hospitality of our publisher, Osgood, abounded.  He dwelt equidistant from Boston and New York, and he had special friends in New York, but he said he much preferred coming to Boston; of late years he never went there, and he had lost the habit of it long before he came home from Europe to live in New York.  At these feasts, which were often of after-dinner-speaking measure,