fix it by
making myself known. I take hold of some man and whisper to him, 'I am
Mark Twain'; but that does not improve it, for immediately I can hear
him whispering to the others, 'He says he is Mark Twain,' and they all
look at me a good deal more suspiciously than before, and I can see
that they don't believe it, and that it was a mistake to make that
confession. Sometimes, in that dream, I am dressed like a tramp instead
of being in my night-clothes; but it all ends about the same--they go
away and leave me standing there, ashamed. I generally enjoy my dreams,
but not those three, and they are the ones I have oftenest."

Quite often some curious episode of the world's history would flash upon
him--something amusing, or coarse, or tragic, and he would bring the
game to a standstill and recount it with wonderful accuracy as to date
and circumstance. He had a natural passion for historic events and a
gift for mentally fixing them, but his memory in other ways was seldom
reliable. He was likely to forget the names even of those he knew best
and saw oftenest, and the small details of life seldom registered at
all.

He had his breakfast served in his room, and once, on a slip of paper,
he wrote, for his own reminder:

The accuracy of your forgetfulness is absolute--it seems never to fail.
I prepare to pour my coffee so it can cool while I shave--and I always
forget to pour it.

Yet, very curiously, he would sometimes single out a minute detail,
something every one else had overlooked, and days or even weeks
afterward would recall it vividly, and not always at an opportune
moment. Perhaps this also was a part of his old pilot-training. Once
Clara Clemens remarked:

"It always amazes me the things that father does and does not remember.
Some little trifle that nobody else would notice, and you are hoping
that he didn't, will suddenly come back to him just when you least
expect it or care for it."

My note-book contains the entry:

February 11, 1907. He said to-day:

"A blindfolded chess-player can remember every play and discuss the
game afterward, while we can't remember from one shot to the next."

I mentioned his old pilot-memory as an example of what he could do
if he wished.

"Yes," he answered, "those are special memories; a pilot will tell
you the number of feet in every crossing at any time, but he can't
remember what he had for breakfast."

"How long did you keep