The Autobiography of Mark Twain by Mark Twain (good book recommendations .TXT) 📕

When Twichell and I arrived at the pier at eight in the morning, the launch was waiting for us. All the others were on board. The yacht was anchored out there, ready to sail. Twichell and I went aboard and ascended to the little drawing-room on the upper deck. The door stood open, and as we approached we heard hilarious laughter and talk proceeding from that place, and I recognized that the worldlings were having a worldly good time. But as Twichell appeared in the door all that hilarity ceased as suddenly as if it had been shut off with an electric button, and the gay faces of the worldlings at once put on a most proper and impressive solemnity. The last word we had heard from these people was the name of Richard Croker, the celebrated Tammany leader, all-round blatherskite and chief pillager of the municipal till. Twichell shook hands all around and broke out with: “I heard you mention Richard Croker. I knew his father very well indeed. He was head teamster in our brigade in the Civil War⁠—the Sickles brigade⁠—a fine man⁠—as fine a man as a person would want to know. He was always splashed over with mud, of course, but that didn’t matter. The man inside the muddy clothes was a whole man; and he was educated, he was highly educated. He was a man who had read a great deal. And he was a Greek scholar; not a mere surface scholar, but a real one; used to read aloud from his Greek Testament, and when he hadn’t it handy he could recite from it from memory, and he did it well and with spirit. Presently I was delighted to see that every now and then he would come over of a Sunday morning and sit under the trees in our camp with our boys and listen to my ministrations. I couldn’t refrain from introducing myself to him⁠—that is, I couldn’t refrain from speaking to him about this, and I said: ‘Mr. Croker, I want to tell you what a pleasure it is to see you come and sit with my boys and listen to me. For I know what it must cost you to do this, and I want to express my admiration for a man who can put aside his religious prejudices and manifest the breadth and tolerance that you have manifested.’ He flushed, and said with eloquent emphasis, ‘Mr. Twichell, do you take me for a God damned papist?’ ”

Mr. Rogers said to me, aside, “This relieves me from my burden of uneasiness.”

Twichell, with his big heart, his wide sympathies, and his limitless benignities and charities and generosities, is the kind of person that people of all ages and both sexes fly to for consolation and help in time of trouble. He is always being levied upon by this kind of persons. Years ago⁠—many years ago⁠—a soft-headed young donkey who had been reared under Mr. Twichell’s spiritual ministrations sought a private interview⁠—a very private interview⁠—with him, and said:

“Mr. Twichell, I wish you would give me some advice. It is a very important matter with me. It lies near my heart and I want to proceed wisely. Now it is like this: I have been down to the Bermudas on the first vacation I have ever had in my life, and there I met a most charming young lady, native of that place, and I fell in love with her, Mr. Twichell. I fell in love with her, oh so deeply! Well, I can’t describe it, Mr. Twichell. I can’t describe it. I have never had such feelings before, and they just consume me; they burn me up. When I got back here I found I couldn’t think of anybody but that girl. I wanted to write to her, but I was afraid. I was afraid. It seemed too bold. I ought to have taken advice, perhaps⁠—but really I was not myself. I had to write⁠—I couldn’t help it. So I wrote to her. I wrote to her as guardedly as my feelings would allow⁠—but I had the sense all the time that I was too bold⁠—I was too bold⁠—she wouldn’t like it. I⁠—Well, sometimes I would almost think maybe she would answer; but then there would come a colder wave and I would say, ‘No, I shall never hear from her⁠—she will be offended.’ But at last, Mr. Twichell, a letter has come. I don’t know how to contain myself. I want to write again, but I may spoil it⁠—I may spoil it⁠—and I want your advice. Tell me if I had better venture. Now here she has written⁠—here is her letter, Mr. Twichell. She says this: she says⁠—she says⁠—‘You say in your letter you wish it could be your privilege to see me half your time. How would you like it to see me all the time?’ What do you think of that, Mr. Twichell? How does that strike you? Do you think she is not offended? Do you think that that indicates a sort of a shadowy leaning toward me? Do you think it, Mr. Twichell? Could you say that?”

“Well,” Twichell said, “I would not like to be too sanguine. I would not like to commit myself too far. I would not like to put hopes into your mind which could fail of fruition, but, on the whole⁠—on the whole⁠—daring is a good thing in these cases. Sometimes daring⁠—a bold front⁠—will accomplish things that timidity would fail to accomplish. I think I would write her⁠—guardedly of course⁠—but write her.”

“Oh, Mr. Twichell, oh, you don’t know how happy you do make me! I’ll write her right away. But I’ll be guarded. I’ll be careful⁠—careful.”

Twichell read the rest of the letter⁠—saw that this girl was just simply throwing herself at this young fellow’s head and was going to capture him by fair means or foul, but capture him. But he sent the young fellow away to write the guarded letter.

In due time he came with