ABSTRACT
Although Mark Twain and I called each other “cousin” and claimed to be blood-relatives, the connection between us was by marriage: a great uncle of his married a great aunt of mine; his mother was named after and reared by this great aunt; and the children of the marriage were, of course, his cousins and mine; and a large, varied and picturesque assortment they were. We were lifelong and very dear friends, however; passed much time together at home and abroad; and had many common ties and memories. The last time I saw him, a little less than two years ago, he came to lunch with me at the Manhattan Club, in New York, where he greatly amused my son, a buoyant, appreciative and promising young lawyer only a few weeks later snatched suddenly and tragically away, by his intimate reminiscences of Col. Sellers, of the “Earl of Durham,” and of other fantastic members of our joint family.
