Twain's hotel last night in a state of beastly intoxication.

It is the imperative duty of the Independents to prove that this besotted brute was not Mark Twain himself.

We have them at last! This is a case that admits of no shirking.

The voice of the people demands in thunder tones, "WHO WAS THAT MAN ?" It was incredible, absolutely incredible, for a moment, that it was really my name that was coupled with this disgraceful suspicion.

Three long years had passed over my head since I had tasted ale, beer, wine or liquor of any kind.
[It shows what effect the times were having on me when I say that I saw myself, confidently dubbed "Mr.Delirium Tremens Twain" in the next issue of that journal without a pang--notwithstanding I knew that with monotonous fidelity the paper would go on calling me so to the very end.] By this time anonymous letters were getting to be an important part of my mail matter.