ingly illustrated by Dan Beard--a
pretentious volume which Mark Twain really considered his last. "It's my
swan-song, my retirement from literature permanently," he wrote Howells,
though certainly he was young, fifty-four, to have reached this
conclusion.

The story of the "Yankee"--a fanciful narrative of a skilled Yankee
mechanic swept backward through the centuries to the dim day of Arthur
and his Round Table--is often grotesque enough in its humor, but under it
all is Mark Twain's great humanity in fierce and noble protest against
unjust laws, the tyranny of an individual or of a ruling class
--oppression of any sort. As in "The Prince and the Pauper," the wandering
heir to the throne is brought in contact with cruel injustice and misery,
so in the "Yankee" the king himself becomes one of a band of fettered
slaves, and through degradation and horror of soul acquires mercy and
humility.

The "Yankee in King Arthur's Court" is a splendidly imagined tale.
Edmund Clarence Stedman and William Dean Howells have ranked it very
high. Howells once wrote: "Of all the fanciful schemes in fiction, it
pleases me most." The "Yankee" has not held its place in public favor
with Mark Twain's earlier books, but it is a wonderful tale, and we
cannot afford to leave it unread.

When the summer came again, Mark Twain and his family decided for once to
forego Quarry Farm for a season in the Catskills, and presently found
themselves located in a cottage at Onteora in the midst of a most
delightful colony. Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, then editor of St. Nicholas,
was there, and Mrs. Custer and Brander Matthews and Lawrence Hutton and a
score of other congenial spirits. There was constant visiting from one
cottage to another, with frequent gatherings at the Inn, which was
general headquarters. Susy Clemens, now eighteen, was a central figure,
brilliant, eager, intense, ambitious for achievement--lacking only in
physical strength. She was so flower-like, it seemed always that her
fragile body must be consumed by the flame of her spirit. It was a happy
summer, but it closed sadly. Clemens was called to Keokuk in August, to
his mother's bedside. A few weeks later came the end, and Jane Clemens
had closed her long and useful life. She was in her eighty-eighth year.
A little later, at Elmira, followed the death of Mrs. Clemens's mother, a
sweet and gentle woman.

[9] Gillette was originally a Hartford boy. Mark Twain had recognized
his ability, a