ng to such a structure.... I
am sure that this singular little creature is the missing link between
the man and the hyena.

Hotten had preyed upon explorer Stanley and libeled him in a so-called.
biography to a degree that had really aroused some feeling against
Stanley in England. Only for the moment--the Queen invited Stanley to
luncheon, and newspaper criticism ceased. Hotten was in general
disrepute, therefore, so it was not worth while throwing a second brick
at him.

In fact, now that Clemens had expended his venom, on paper, Hotten seemed
to him rather an amusing figure than otherwise. An incident grew out of
it all, however, that was not amusing. E. P. Hingston, whom the reader
may remember as having been with Artemus Ward in Virginia City, and one
of that happy group that wined and dined the year away, had been engaged
by Hotten to write the introductory to his edition of The Innocents
Abroad. It was a well-written, highly complimentary appreciation.
Hingston did not dream that he was committing an offense, nor did Clemens
himself regard it as such in the beginning.

But Mark Twain's views had undergone a radical change, and with
characteristic dismissal of previous conditions he had forgotten that he
had ever had any other views than those he now held. Hingston was in
London, and one evening, at a gathering, approached Clemens with
outstretched hand. But Clemens failed to see Hingston's hand or to
recognize him. In after-years his conscience hurt him terribly for this.
He remembered it only with remorse and shame. Once, in his old age, he
spoke of it with deep sorrow.

LXXXVII

THE BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN

The book on England, which he had prepared for so carefully, was never
written. Hundreds of the stylographic pages were filled, and the
duplicates sent home for the entertainment of Olivia Clemens, but the
notes were not completed, and the actual writing was never begun. There
was too much sociability in London for one thing, and then he found that
he could not write entertainingly of England without introducing too many
personalities, and running the risk of offending those who had taken him
into their hearts and homes. In a word, he would have to write too
seriously or not at all.

He began his memoranda industriously enough, and the volume might have
been as charming and as valuable as any he has left behind. The reader
will hardly fail to find a few of the entries interesting. They are