Saw Mark Twain several times, and one night had the pleasure of taking him to the American Artists’ Club. The young men had insisted on my asking him to come and make a speech. I went to his apartments, near my own, and together we walked clear across the city. It must have been miles, but I was glad of it. He talked all the way, not with the humor that has made him famous, but in an earnest, thoughtful, sincere mood. He told me how he did his literary work, when in Munich. “I hire a room,” said he, “away off in some obscure quarter of the town, far away from where we live; where no one, not even Mrs. Clemens, could find me. The people who let the room do not know who I am. I go there mornings, stay all day, and work till evening. When at my book-writing, I never sleep a wink, no matter how many days or weeks the undertaking. It is now two weeks since I have slept one single hour.” I wondered such a life was not killing him. As we trudged along under the lamp lights of the streets, we had much small talk of the West, of the time when he was young and when he was “roughing it.” I amused him by relating how I kept a copy of his “Roughing It” at the consulate, to lend to travelers who came along with the “hypo” and like afflictions. [Illustration: Castle Chillon.] Something was said of certain American writers, recently sprung to fame. I mentioned a letter Charles Dickens, just before his death, wrote to Bret Harte. The letter, in fact, only reached Harte after Dickens’ death, and was followed by Harte’s beautiful verses, “Dickens in Camp.” “Dickens could well afford to write nice letters to Bret Harte,” said he, “for he has no more faithful admirer and student, and he has adopted the Englishman’s style. Why not? He could not find a better model, and even as great a genius as Balzac boasted of his dependence on the style of Victor Hugo. Solomon, when he said there was nothing new, meant also there were no new literary styles under the sun, either.” My own belief is that Bret Harte’s short California sketches are better than anything Dickens ever wrote. When we reached the new art room that night, the artists and students were already assembled, and were sitting at a couple of long tables, drinking beer and smoking. An enormous schooner full of beer stood at every plate, and the smoke in the room was almost thick enough to slice up and carry out.