w, however, there arose within him a deep compassion for
the gentle Maid of Orleans, a burning resentment toward her captors,
a powerful and indestructible interest in her sad history. It was an
interest that would grow steadily for more than half a lifetime
and culminate at last in that crowning work, the Recollections, the
loveliest story ever told of the martyred girl.

The incident meant even more than that: it meant the awakening of his
interest in all history--the world's story in its many phases--a passion
which became the largest feature of his intellectual life and remained
with him until his very last day on earth. From the moment when that
fluttering leaf was blown into his hands his career as one of the
world's mentally elect was assured. It gave him his cue--the first
word of a part in the human drama. It crystallized suddenly within him
sympathy with the oppressed, rebellion against tyranny and treachery,
scorn for the divine rights of kings. A few months before he died he
wrote a paper on "The Turning-point of My Life." For some reason he did
not mention this incident. Yet if there was a turning-point in his life,
he reached it that bleak afternoon on the streets of Hannibal when a
stray leaf from another life was blown into his hands.

He read hungrily now everything he could find relating to the French
wars, and to Joan in particular. He acquired an appetite for history in
general, the record of any nation or period; he seemed likely to become
a student. Presently he began to feel the need of languages, French
and German. There was no opportunity to acquire French, that he could
discover, but there was a German shoemaker in Hannibal who agreed to
teach his native tongue. Sam Clemens got a friend--very likely it was
John Briggs--to form a class with him, and together they arranged for
lessons. The shoemaker had little or no English. They had no German. It
would seem, however, that their teacher had some sort of a "word-book,"
and when they assembled in his little cubby-hole of a retreat he began
reading aloud from it this puzzling sentence:

"De hain eet flee whoop in de hayer."

"Dere!" he said, triumphantly; "you know dose vord?"

The students looked at each other helplessly.

The teacher repeated the sentence, and again they were helpless when he
asked if they recognized it.

Then in despair he showed them the book. It was an English primer, and
the sentence was:

"The hen, it flies up in the