apply, where in the end the problem resolves itself into a question of
individualities.  John Hay did as great work after forty as ever before,
so did Mark Twain, and both of them gained in intellectual strength and
public honor to the very end. 

Yet it must have seemed to many who knew him, and to himself, like
enough, that Mark Twain at forty had reached the pinnacle of his fame and
achievement.  His name was on every lip; in whatever environment
observation and argument were likely to be pointed with some saying or
anecdote attributed, rightly or otherwise, to Mark Twain.  "As Mark Twain
says," or, "You know that story of Mark Twain's," were universal and
daily commonplaces.  It was dazzling, towering fame, not of the best or
most enduring kind as yet, but holding somewhere within it the structure
of immortality. 

He was in a constant state of siege, besought by all varieties and
conditions of humanity for favors such as only human need and abnormal
ingenuity can invent.  His ever-increasing mail presented a marvelous
exhibition of the human species on undress parade.  True, there were
hundreds of appreciative tributes from readers who spoke only out of a