model indeed, one might have thought it, for all New Englanders in their dealings with the West.
Am I exaggerating the significance of what might be taken for an accident? In any case, it was not until that latter period when he was too old and too secure in his seat to fear public opinion quite in this earlier way that he had his revenge in The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg—not till then, and then only in a measure, did he ever again, openly and on a large scale, attack the spiritual integrity of industrial America. Occasionally, in some little sketch like The Great Revolution in Pitcairn, where the Presbyterian Yankee is described as "a doubtful acquisition," he ventures a pin-prick in the dark; and we know that he sent his 1601 anonymously to a magazine editor who had once remarked, "O that we had a Rabelais!" "I judged," said Mark Twain, "that I could furnish him one." But he had had his fingers burnt too often: he had no intention of persisting. It is notable, therefore, that having begun with contemporary society in The Gilded Age, he travels backward into the past for his subsequent pseudo-satirical themes: he feels free to express his social indignation only in terms of the seventh century England of the Connecticut Yankee, the fifteenth century England of The Prince and the Pauper, the fourteenth century France of Joan of Arc, the sixteenth century Austria of The Mysterious Stranger. Never again America, one observes, and never again the present, for the first of these books alone contains anything like a contemporary social implication and that, the implication of the Connecticut Yankee, is a flattering one. But I am exaggerating. Mark Twain does attack the present in the persons of the Czar and King Leopold, whom all good Americans abhorred. As for his attacks on corruption in-domestic politics, on the missionaries in China, was he not, when he at last "spoke out," supported by the leading citizens who are always ready to back the right sort of prophet? Turn to Mr. Paine's biography: you will find Mr. Carnegie, whom he called Saint Andrew, begging Saint Mark for permission to print and distribute in proper form that "sacred message" about the missionaries. Mark Twain knew how to estimate the sanctity of his own moral courage. "Do right," he notes, in his private memoranda, "—do right and you will be conspicuous."
Let us take one more instance, the supreme instance, of Mark Twain's intention and failure in his predestined role, the Con-
