"I never doctored any literature--I wouldn't know how."

He had thought never to cross the ocean again, but he declared he would
travel to Mars and back, if necessary, to get that Oxford degree.
He appreciated its full meaning-recognition by the world's foremost
institution of learning of the achievements of one who had no learning
of the institutionary kind. He sailed in June, and his sojourn in
England was marked by a continuous ovation. His hotel was besieged by
callers. Two secretaries were busy nearly twenty hours a day attending
to visitors and mail. When he appeared on the street his name went
echoing in every direction and the multitudes gathered. On the day when
he rose, in his scarlet robe and black mortar-board, to receive his
degree (he must have made a splendid picture in that dress, with his
crown of silver hair), the vast assembly went wild. What a triumph,
indeed, for the little Missouri printer-boy! It was the climax of a
great career.

Mark Twain's work was always of a kind to make people talk, always
important, even when it was mere humor. Yet it was seldom that; there
was always wisdom under it, and purpose, and these things gave it
dynamic force and enduring life. Some of his aphorisms--so quaint in
form as to invite laughter--are yet fairly startling in their purport.
His paraphrase, "When in doubt, tell the truth," is of this sort.
"Frankness is a jewel; only the young can afford it," he once said to
the writer, apropos of a little girl's remark. His daily speech was full
of such things. The secret of his great charm was his great humanity and
the gentle quaintness and sincerity of his utterance.

His work did not cease when the pressing need of money came to an end.
He was full of ideas, and likely to begin a new article or story at any
time. He wrote and published a number of notable sketches, articles,
stories, even books, during these later years, among them that marvelous
short story--"The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg." In that story, as in
most of his later work, he proved to the world that he was much more
than a humorist--that he was, in fact, a great teacher, moralist,
philosopher--the greatest, perhaps, of his age.

His life at Stormfield--he had never seen the place until the day of his
arrival, June 18, 1908--was a peaceful and serene old age. Not that he
was really old; he never was that. His step, his manner, his point of
view, were all and always young. He was fond of children