--the
tale of a double illness in the household, where a righteous deception
was carried on during several weeks for the benefit of a life that
was about to slip away. Out of this grew the story, "Was it Heaven? or
Hell?" a heartbreaking history which probes the very depths of the
human soul. Next to "Hadleyburg," it is Mark Twain's greatest fictional
sermon.

Clemens that summer wrote, or rather finished, his most pretentious
poem. One day at Riverdale, when Mrs. Clemens had been with him on the
lawn, they had remembered together the time when their family of little
folks had filled their lives so full, conjuring up dream-like glimpses
of them in the years of play and short frocks and hair-plaits down their
backs. It was pathetic, heart-wringing fancying; and later in the day
Clemens conceived and began the poem which now he brought to conclusion.
It was built on the idea of a mother who imagines her dead child still
living, and describes to any listener the pictures of her fancy. It is
an impressive piece of work; but the author, for some reason, did not
offer it for publication.--[This poem was completed on the anniversary
of Susy's death and is of considerable length. Some selections from it
will be found under Appendix U, at the end of this work.]

Mrs. Clemens, whose health earlier in the year had been delicate, became
very seriously ill at York Harbor. Howells writes:

At first she had been about the house, and there was one gentle
afternoon when she made tea for us in the parlor, but that was the
last time I spoke with her. After that it was really a question of how
soonest and easiest she could be got back to Riverdale.

She had seemed to be in fairly good health and spirits for several weeks
after the arrival at York. Then, early in August, there came a great
celebration of some municipal anniversary, and for two or three days
there were processions, mass-meetings, and so on by day, with fireworks
at night. Mrs. Clemens, always young in spirit, was greatly interested.
She went about more than her strength warranted, seeing and hearing and
enjoying all that was going on. She was finally persuaded to forego the
remaining ceremonies and rest quietly on the pleasant veranda at home;
but she had overtaxed herself and a collapse was inevitable. Howells and
two friends called one afternoon, and a friend of the Queen of Rumania,
a Madame Hartwig, who had brought from that gracious sovereign a letter
which closed i