honorary membership, all the better–create it for my honor and glory.’
That would be a great thing; I will go to John Elderkin as soon as I get
back from Hartford.”
I took the last express that afternoon, first telegraphing Mr. F. G.
Whitmore to come and see me next day. When he came he asked: “Did you
get a letter from Mr. John Elderkin, secretary of the Lotos Club, before
you left New York?”
“Then it just missed you. If I had known you were coming I would have
kept it. It is beautiful, and will make you proud. The Board of
Directors, by unanimous vote, have made you a life member, and squelched
those dues; and, you are to be on hand and receive your distinction on
the night of the 30th, which is the twenty-fifth anniversary of the
founding of the club, and it will not surprise me if they have some great
times there.”
What put the honorary membership in my head that day in the Century Club?
for I had never thought of it before. I don’t know what brought the
thought to me at that particular time instead of earlier, but I am well
satisfied that it originated with the Board of Directors, and had been on
its way to my brain through the air ever since the moment that saw their
vote recorded.
Another incident. I was in Hartford two or three days as a guest of the
Rev. Joseph H. Twichell. I have held the rank of Honorary Uncle to his
children for a quarter of a century, and I went out with him in the
trolley-car to visit one of my nieces, who is at Miss Porter’s famous
school in Farmington. The distance is eight or nine miles. On the way,
talking, I illustrated something with an anecdote. This is the anecdote:
Two years and a half ago I and the family arrived at Milan on our way to
Rome, and stopped at the Continental. After dinner I went below and took
a seat in the stone-paved court, where the customary lemon-trees stand in
the customary tubs, and said to myself, “Now this is comfort, comfort and
repose, and nobody to disturb it; I do not know anybody in Milan.”
Then a young gentleman stepped up and shook hands, which damaged my
theory. He said, in substance:
“You won’t remember me, Mr. Clemens, but I remember you very well. I was
a cadet at West Point when you and Rev. Joseph H. Twichell came there
some years ago and talked to us on a Hundredth Night. I am a lieutenant
in the regular army now, and my name is H. I am in Europe, all alone,
for a modest little tour; my regiment is in Arizona.”
We became friendly and sociable, and in the course of the talk he told me
of an adventure which had befallen him–about to this effect:
“I was at Bellagio, stopping at the big hotel there, and ten days ago I
lost my letter of credit. I did not know what in the world to do. I was
a stranger; I knew no one in Europe; I hadn’t a penny in my pocket; I
couldn’t even send a telegram to London to get my lost letter replaced;
my hotel bill was a week old, and the presentation of it imminent–so
imminent that it could happen at any moment now. I was so frightened
that my wits seemed to leave me. I tramped and tramped, back and forth,
like a crazy person. If anybody approached me I hurried away, for no
matter what a person looked like, I took him for the head waiter with the
bill.
“I was at last in such a desperate state that I was ready to do any wild
thing that promised even the shadow of help, and so this is the insane
thing that I did. I saw a family lunching at a small table on the
veranda, and recognized their nationality–Americans–father, mother, and
several young daughters–young, tastefully dressed, and pretty–the rule
with our people. I went straight there in my civilian costume, named my
name, said I was a lieutenant in the army, and told my story and asked