The family did not return to New York. They took a beautiful house at
Riverdale on the Hudson--the old Appleton homestead. Here they
established themselves and settled down for American residence. They
would have bought the Appleton place, but the price was beyond their
reach.
It was in the autumn of 1901 that Mark Twain settled in Riverdale. In
June of the following year he was summoned West to receive the degree of
LL.D. from the university of his native state. He made the journey a
sort of last general visit to old associations and friends. In St. Louis
he saw Horace Bixby, fresh, wiry, and capable as he had been forty-five
years before. Clemens said:
"I have become an old man. You are still thirty-five."
They went over to the rooms of the pilots' association, where the
river-men gathered in force to celebrate his return. Then he took train
for Hannibal.
He spent several days in Hannibal and saw Laura Hawkins--Mrs. Frazer, and
a widow now--and John Briggs, an old man, and John RoBards, who had worn
the golden curls and the medal for good conduct. They drove him to the
old house on Hill Street, where once he had lived and set type;
photographers were there and photographed him standing at the front door.
"It all seems so small to me," he said, as he looked through the house.
"A boy's home is a big place to him. I suppose if I should come back
again ten years from now it would be the size of a bird-house." He did
not see "Huck"--Torn Blankenship had not lived in Hannibal for many
years. But he was driven to all the familiar haunts--to Lover's Leap,
the cave, and the rest; and Sunday afternoon, with John Briggs, he walked
over Holliday's Hill--the "Cardiff Hill" of "Tom Sawyer." It was just
such a day, as the one when they had damaged a cooper shop and so nearly
finished the old negro driver. A good deal more than fifty years had
passed since then, and now here they were once more--Tom Sawyer and Joe
Harper--two old men, the hills still fresh and green, the river rippling
in the sun. Looking across to the Illinois shore and the green islands
where they had played, and to Lover's Leap on the south, the man who had
been Sam Clemens said:
"John, that is one of the loveliest sights I ever saw. Down there is the
place we used to swim, and yonder is where a man was drowned, and there's
where the steamboat sank. Down there on Lover's Leap is where the
Millerites put on their robes one night to go to heaven. None of them
went that night, but I suppose most of them have gone now."
John Briggs said, "Sam, do you remember the day we stole peaches from old
man Price, and one of his bow-legged niggers came after us with dogs, and
how we made up our minds we'd catch that nigger and drown him?"
And so they talked on of this thing and that, and by and by drove along
the river, and Sam Clemens pointed out the place where he swam it and was
taken with a cramp on the return.
"Once near the shore I thought I would let down," he said, "but was
afraid to, knowing that if the water was deep I was a goner, but finally
my knee struck the sand and I crawled out. That was the closest call I
ever had."
They drove by a place where a haunted house had stood. They drank from a
well they had always known--from the bucket, as they had always drunk
--talking, always talking, touching with lingering fondness that most
beautiful and safest of all our possessions--the past.
"Sam," said John, when they parted, "this is probably the last time we
shall meet on earth. God bless you. Perhaps somewhere we shall renew
our friendship."
"John," was the answer, "this day has been worth a thousand dollars to
me. We were like brothers once, and I feel that we are the same now.
Good-by, John. I'll try to meet you somewhere."
Clemens left next day for Columbia, where the university is located. At
each station a crowd had gathered to cheer and wave as the train pulled
in and to offer him flowers. Sometimes he tried to say a few words, but
his voice would not come. This was more than even Tom Sawyer had
dreamed.
Certainly there is something deeply touching in the recognition of one's
native State; the return of the boy who has set out unknown to battle
with life and who is called back to be crowned is unlike any other
home-coming--more dramatic, more moving. Next day at the university Mark
Twain, summoned before the crowded assembly-hall to receive his degree,
stepped out to the center of the stage and paused. He seemed in doubt as
to whether he should make a speech or only express his thanks for the
honor received. Suddenly and without signal the great audience rose and
stood in silence at his feet. He bowed but he could not speak. Then the
vast assembly began a peculiar chant, spelling out slowly the word
M-i-s-s-o-u-r-i, with a pause between each letter. It was tremendously
impressive.
Mark Twain was not left in doubt as to what was required of him when the
chant ended. The audience demanded a speech--a speech, and he made them
one--such a speech as no one there would forget to his dying day.
Back in St. Louis, he attended the rechristening of the St. Louis harbor
boat; it had been previously called the "St. Louis," but it was now to be
called the "Mark Twain."