"By his life he made bright the lives of all who knew him and by his books he cheered the thoughts of thousands who didn't know him."
Substitute "millions" for thousands and you have Mark Twain the Man and Mark Twain the Writer.
***
One afternoon, having laughed our fill with the "Belle of New York" and rejoiced in the London success of the piece (Mark, who while alive enjoyed scant luck as a playwright, yet loved to see others "win out"), our friend and the present writer happened to cross Bedford Square. Seeing the name at a street corner, Mark pulled out his note book. "Eugene Field lived somewhere around here in 1889," he said. I showed him the house, No. 20 Alfred Street.
"A dark and dismal hole," said Mark, ruefully shaking his head; "no wonder he couldn't find his 'righteous stomach' there, even in the absence of Chicago pies."
"And coffee," I interpolated. "Yours truly, too, would have died of dyspepsia if he had stayed in Chicago and continued at Henrici's coffee and pie counter, as Gene did."
Mark remained silent for a block or two. "I've got it," he said at last, "God gave Gene a good enough stomach, and English hospitality completely paralyzed what was left of his digestive powers after the Cook County coffee
xx
