had established there in the old Aldrich
homestead. It was hot weather. We were obliged to take a rather poor
train from South Norwalk, and Clemens was silent and gloomy most of the
way to Boston. Once there, however, lodged in a cool and comfortable
hotel, matters improved. He had brought along for reading the old copy
of Sir Thomas Malory's Arthur Tales, and after dinner he took off
his clothes and climbed into bed and sat up and read aloud from those
stately legends, with comments that I wish I could remember now, only
stopping at last when overpowered with sleep.

We went on a special train to Portsmouth next morning through the summer
heat, and assembled, with those who were to speak, in the back
portion of the opera-house, behind the scenes: Clemens was genial and
good-natured with all the discomfort of it; and he liked to fancy,
with Howells, who had come over from Kittery Point, how Aldrich must
be amused at the whole circumstance if he could see them punishing
themselves to do honor to his memory. Richard Watson Gilder was there,
and Hamilton Mabie; also Governor Floyd of New Hampshire; Colonel
Higginson, Robert Bridges, and other distinguished men. We got to the
more open atmosphere of the stage presently, and the exercises began.
Clemens was last on the program.

The others had all said handsome, serious things, and Clemens himself
had mentally prepared something of the sort; but when his turn came, and
he rose to speak, a sudden reaction must have set in, for he delivered
an address that certainly would have delighted Aldrich living, and must
have delighted him dead, if he could hear it. It was full of the most
charming humor, delicate, refreshing, and spontaneous. The audience,
that had been maintaining a proper gravity throughout, showed its
appreciation in ripples of merriment that grew presently into genuine
waves of laughter. He spoke out his regret for having worn black
clothes. It was a mistake, he said, to consider this a solemn
time--Aldrich would not have wished it to be so considered. He had been
a man who loved humor and brightness and wit, and had helped to make
life merry and delightful. Certainly, if he could know, he would not
wish this dedication of his own home to be a lugubrious, smileless
occasion. Outside, when the services were ended, the venerable juvenile
writer, J. T. Trowbridge, came up to Clemens with extended hand. Clemens
said: "Trowbridge, are you still alive? You must be a tho