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Updated: May 29, 2025
Twichell came to Nauheim during the summer, and one day he and Clemens ran over to Homburg, not far away.
They had broken their journey with a night's rest, and they had helped themselves lavishly out by rail in the last half; but still it had been a mighty walk to do in two days. Clemens was a great walker, in those years, and was always telling of his tramps with Mr. Twichell to Talcott's Tower, ten miles out of Hartford. As he walked of course he talked, and of course he smoked.
Twichell was summoned for August, and wrote back eagerly at the prospect: "Oh, my! Do you realize, Mark, what a symposium it is to be? I do. To begin with, I am thoroughly tired, and the rest will be worth everything. To walk with you and talk with you for weeks together why, it's my dream of luxury!" Meantime the struggle with the "awful German language" went on.
As for friends living near, they usually came and went at will, often without the ceremony of knocking or formal leave-taking. The two Warner famines were among these, the home of Charles Dudley Warner being only a step away. Dr. and Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe were also close neighbors, while the Twichell parsonage was not far.
The great war, as I think, exterminated this entire tribe. I was delighted to find at Nauheim my old friends, Mark Twain and the Reverend Doctor Joseph Twichell, of Hartford, Conn. Doctor Twichell was Mark Twain's pastor at home. He was in college with me at Yale, and I was also associated with him in the governing corporation of Yale University.
I was in Hartford two or three days as a guest of the Rev. Joseph H. Twichell. I have held the rank of Honorary Uncle to his children for a quarter of a century, and I went out with him in the trolley-car to visit one of my nieces, who is at Miss Porter's famous school in Farmington. The distance is eight or nine miles. On the way, talking, I illustrated something with an anecdote.
Across from Villa Buhlegg on the lake-front there was a small shaded inclosure where he loved to sit and look out on the blue water and lofty mountains, one of which, Rigi, he and Twichell had climbed nineteen years before. Autumn found the family in Vienna, located for the winter at the Hotel Metropole. Mrs.
Clemens considered the matter, and decided that a walking-tour in Europe might furnish the material he wanted. He spoke to his good friend, the Rev. "Joe" Twichell, and invited him to become his guest on such an excursion, because, as he explained, he thought he could "dig material enough out of Joe to make it a sound investment."
When a piece went over a fall and emerged to view in the foam below, he would jump up and down and yell. He acted just like a boy. Boy he was, then and always. Like Peter Pan, he never really grew up that is, if growing up means to grow solemn and uninterested in play. Climbing the Gorner Grat with Twichell, they sat down to rest, and a lamb from a near-by flock ventured toward them.
As a matter of fact, he loved Twichell's companionship, and was always inviting him to share his journeys to Boston, to Bermuda, to Washington wherever interest or fancy led him. His plan now was to take the family to Germany in the spring, and let Twichell join them later for a summer tramp down through the Black Forest and Switzerland. Meantime the Clemens household took up the study of German.
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