NOTEBOOK

It would seem that France was not born to create
civilizations; yet she has one glory which not all the eons
left in the slow wasting magazine of time can dim or
obliterate. Let her content herself with the reflection that
it was across her firmament that those two prodigies swept,
astonishing the world, Napoleon and Joan of Arc,—that
wonderful man and that sublime girl who dwarf all the
rest of the human race.

Sailed from Southampton for America. "New York,"
Feb. 23, 1895.

Another wild rush to America; publishing
matters, and to attend the machine's funeral,
the latter having finally come to an end in De-
cember, failing completely to stand the test,1
His only interest now was his Joan book, and a
lecture tour which he proposed to make around
the world, to pay his debts.

Bob Ingersoll's tale of the Presbyterian saint who went
from heaven to hell on a cheap excursion ticket—and
couldn't sell his return ticket.

Noise proves nothing, often a hen that has merely laid
an egg cackles as if she had laid an asteroid.

Paris. Clara left parasol in a cab. Susy left a couple
of bundles in cab. Mrs. C. left porte-monnaie on a counter.
I left some things in a cab—but said nothing about it.

There are 26,244 cabs, each makes as many as thirty
courses a day, moving about 45 persons. Two persons out
of three leave something in the cab; thirty articles a day
per cab; 10,000 a year per cab. 262,440,000 articles a
year for the 26,244 cabs, if there are that many cabs and
if my estimate is right.

1 See Mark Twain, a Biography, Chapter CLXXXIX.

241