We had a peculiar pleasure in looking off from the high windows on the pretty Hartford landscape, and down from them into the tops of the trees clothing the hillside by which his house stood.  We agreed that there was a novel charm in trees seen from such a vantage, far surpassing that of the farther scenery.  He had not been a country boy for nothing; rather he had been a country boy, or, still better, a village boy, for everything that Nature can offer the young of our species, and no aspect of her was lost on him.  We were natives of the same vast Mississippi Valley; and Missouri was not so far from Ohio but that we were akin in our first knowledges of woods and fields as we were in our early parlance.  I had outgrown the use of mine through my greater bookishness, but I gladly recognized the phrases which he employed for their lasting juiciness and the long-remembered savor they had on his mental palate.

I have elsewhere sufficiently spoken of his unsophisticated use of words, of the diction which forms the backbone of his manly style.  If I mention my own greater bookishness, by which I mean his less quantitative reading, it is to give myself better occasion to note that he was always reading some vital book.  It might be some out-of-the-way book, but it had the root of the human matter in it:  a volume of great trials; one of the supreme autobiographies; a signal passage of history, a narrative of travel, a story of captivity, which gave him life at first-hand.  As I remember, he did not care much for fiction, and in that sort he had certain distinct loathings; there were certain authors whose names he seemed not so much to pronounce as to spew out of his mouth.  Goldsmith was one of these, but his prime abhorrence was my dear and honored prime favorite, Jane Austen.  He once said to me, I suppose after he had been reading some of my unsparing praises of her—­I am always praising her, “You seem to think that woman could write,” and he forbore withering me with his scorn, apparently because we had been friends so long, and he more pitied than hated me for my bad taste.  He seemed not to have any preferences among novelists; or at least I never heard him express any.  He used to read the modern novels I praised, in or out of print; but I do not think he much liked reading fiction.  As for plays, he detested the theatre, and said he would as lief do a sum as follow a plot on the stage.  He could not, or did not, give any reasons for his literary abhorrences, and perhaps he really had none.  But he could have said very distinctly, if he had needed, why he liked the books he did.  I was away at the time of his great Browning passion, and I know of it chiefly from hearsay; but at the time Tolstoy was doing what could be done to make me over Clemens wrote, “That man seems to have been to you what Browning was to me.”  I do not know that he had other favorites among the poets, but he had favorite poems which he liked to read to you, and he read, of course, splendidly.  I have forgotten what piece of John Hay’s it was that he liked so much, but I remembered how he fiercely revelled in the vengefulness of William Morris’s ‘Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,’ and how he especially exalted in the lines which tell of the supposed speaker’s joy in slaying the murderer of his brother: