gs which ought to
try man's patience, but they never seem to try his; he always finds a
colorable excuse for what I have done. His soul was born superhumanly
sweet, and I do not think anything can sour it. I have not known his
equal among men for lovable qualities. But for his cool head and wise
guidance I should never have come out of the Webster difficulties on
top; it was his good steering that enabled me to work out my salvation
and pay a hundred cents on the dollar--the most valuable service any man
ever did me.

His character is full of fine graces, but the finest is this: that he
can load you down with crushing obligations and then so conduct himself
that you never feel their weight. If he would only require something in
return--but that is not in his nature; it would not occur to him. With
the Harpers and the American Company at war those copyrights were worth
but little; he engineered a peace and made them valuable. He invests
$100,000 for me here, and in a few months returns a profit of $31,000.
I invest (in London and here) $66,000 and must wait considerably for
results (in case there shall be any). I tell him about it and he
finds no fault, utters not a sarcasm. He was born serene, patient,
all-enduring, where a friend is concerned, and nothing can extinguish
that great quality in him. Such a man is entitled to the high gift of
humor: he has it at its very best. He is not only the best friend I have
ever had, but is the best man I have known.

S. L. CLEMENS.

APPENDIX U

FROM MARK TWAIN'S LAST POEM

BEGUN AT RIVERDALE, NEW YORK. FINISHED AT YORK HARBOR, MAINE, AUGUST 18,
1902

(See Chapter ccxxiii)

(A bereft and demented mother speaks)

... O, I can see my darling yet: the little form In slip of flimsy stuff
all creamy white, Pink-belted waist with ample bows, Blue shoes scarce
bigger than the house-cat's ears--Capering in delight and choked with
glee.

It was a summer afternoon; the hill Rose green above me and about,
and in the vale below The distant village slept, and all the world Was
steeped in dreams. Upon me lay this peace, And I forgot my sorrow in
its spell. And now My little maid passed by, and she Was deep in thought
upon a solemn thing: A disobedience, and my reproof. Upon my face She
must not look until the day was done; For she was doing penance... She?
O, it was I! What mother knows not that? And so she passed, I worshiping
and longing... It was not wro