But when he wanted to be serious he made you feel (as Priam says of Ulysses), “Words, like winter snowflakes, fell from his mouth. Then might no man compare with Ulysses.” One afternoon a crowd of us were in the club, drinking and making frivolous talk. Clemens was doing more than holding his own with the best of us, when suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. He left for a moment, and when he returned, the expression of his eyes was changed. He had a book in his hand and he sat down, saying: “I will now read you the greatest piece of prose since the days of Marlowe.” And then, his nasal twang gone, his voice attaining a beautiful sonority, he read, as no one else could have done it—the Gettysburg Speech. It was one of the big moments of my life. I remember well a comment he made afterward: “If any one of you men ever have a class in English,” he said, “give them this. Let them try to put an adverb after the word _here_. No one but Lincoln could have thought of using, ‘That we here _highly_ resolve.’ No! No! No one!” The last time I saw Mark Twain was at a luncheon at Delmonico’s, given by one of my friends in honor of a British army attaché. I got there rather early and my host was worried for fear his guest of honor would be disappointed in Mr. Clemens. He was getting old and did not perform readily. I said: “Will you leave it to me? I’ll make him show off; but you must promise not to be surprised at anything and to back me up, however foolish I may act.” He promised. I went to the butler and asked him to see that there was a man behind Mr. Clemens to refill his glass as soon as he took a sip. He did not drink much in those days, so it was important he must not be given a chance to refuse. Before the chill of the beginning of the lunch had passed off, I rose and said to my host: “I want to tell a story.” Derision from the others: “He talks all the time!” “Shut up!” They even threw bread at me to keep me quiet. But I insisted in a silly way, as if I were drunk, and my host backed me up. Then I began to tell one of Mr. Clemens’s pet stories in such a manner that no one but he would recognize it. I mixed it all up and finally missed the point altogether, sitting down with a fatuous grin. He couldn’t stand it. His face grew red, he bristled and glared, reached for his cocktail, downed it, and rose. “That was a good story,” he said, indignantly, “but _he_ can’t tell it. This is the way it should go.” And he told it in his inimitable way. After that nothing could stop him. He was witty, clever, and the life of the lunch. The old Clemens girded on his armor and went out again arrayed for battle; but I often wonder if he went to his grave thinking I was as much of an ass as I appeared that day. Chapter XV: Paint and Painters