, and to himself, like
enough, that Mark Twain at forty had reached the pinnacle of his fame
and achievement. His name was on every lip; in whatever environment
observation and argument were likely to be pointed with some saying or
anecdote attributed, rightly or otherwise, to Mark Twain. "As Mark Twain
says," or, "You know that story of Mark Twain's," were universal and
daily commonplaces. It was dazzling, towering fame, not of the best or
most enduring kind as yet, but holding somewhere within it the structure
of immortality.

He was in a constant state of siege, besought by all varieties and
conditions of humanity for favors such as only human need and abnormal
ingenuity can invent. His ever-increasing mail presented a marvelous
exhibition of the human species on undress parade. True, there were
hundreds of appreciative tributes from readers who spoke only out of a
heart's gratitude; but there were nearly as great a number who came
with a compliment, and added a petition, or a demand, or a suggestion,
usually unwarranted, often impertinent. Politicians, public speakers,
aspiring writers, actors, elocutionists, singers, inventors (most
of them he had never seen or heard of) cheerfully asked him for a
recommendation as to their abilities and projects.

Young men wrote requesting verses or sentiments to be inscribed in young
ladies' autograph albums; young girls wrote asking him to write the
story of his life, to be used as a school composition; men starting
obscure papers coolly invited him to lend them his name as editor,
assuring him that he would be put to no trouble, and that it would help
advertise his books; a fruitful humorist wrote that he had invented
some five thousand puns, and invited Mark Twain to father this terrific
progeny in book form for a share of the returns. But the list is
endless. He said once:

"The symbol of the race ought to be a human being carrying an ax, for
every human being has one concealed about him somewhere, and is always
seeking the opportunity to grind it."

Even P. T. Barnum had an ax, the large ax of advertising, and he was
perpetually trying to grind it on Mark Twain's reputation; in other
words, trying to get him to write something that would help to
popularize "The Greatest Show on Earth."

There were a good many curious letters-letters from humorists, would-be
and genuine. A bright man in Duluth sent him an old Allen "pepper-box"
revolver with the statement that it had b