NOTEBOOK

March 28. Twichell sends me a vast newspaper head-
ing, the breadth of five columns "Close of a Great Ca-
reer" in which it is said that I am living in penury in
London and that my family has forsaken me. This would
enrage and disgust me if it came from a dog or a cow,
or an elephant or any other of the higher animals, but it
conies from a man, and much allowance must be made
for man.

London, April 13, '97. I finished my book today.

Boys whipping tops—never saw it in my life till in
London, this time—yet was raised on books with wood-
cuts of boys doing it

There is no such thing as Queen's English. The prop-
erty has gone into the hands of a joint stock company
and we own the bulk of the shares.

Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never
shows to anybody.

None of us can ever have as many virtues as the foun-
tain pen, or half its cussedness; but we can try.

I have traveled more than anyone else, and I have
noticed that even the angels speak English with an
accent.

May 18, '97. Finished the book again. Addition of
30,000 words.

Jan. 2, '97. Came Mr. White,1 representing N. Y. Jour-
nal with two cablegrams from his paper.

1 It has been stated that Mark Twain was then living at a London
hotel. He was still at 23 Ted worth Square.

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