And he _will_ tell the truth in spite of himself, for his facts and his fictions will work loyally together for the protection of the reader; each fact and each fiction will be a dab of paint, each will fall in its right place, and together they will paint his portrait; not the portrait _he_ thinks they are painting, but his real portrait, the inside of him, the soul of him, his character.
Without intending to lie he will lie all the time; not bluntly, consciously, not dully unconsciously, but half-consciously-- consciousness in twilight; a soft and gentle and merciful twilight which makes his general form comely, with his virtuous prominences and projections discernible and his ungracious ones in shadow.

His truths will be recognizable as truths, his modifications of facts which would tell against him will go for nothing, the reader will see the fact through the film and know his man.
"There is a subtle devilish something or other about autobiographical composition that defeats all the writer's attempts to paint his portrait _his_ way." Hay meant that he and I were ordinary average commonplace people, and I did not resent my share of the verdict, but nursed my wound in silence.
His idea that we had finished our work in life, passed the summit and were westward bound down-hill, with me two years ahead of him and neither of us with anything further to do as benefactors to mankind, was all a mistake.

I had written four books then, possibly five.

I have been drowning the world in literary wisdom ever since, volume after volume; since that day's sun went down he has been the historian of Mr.Lincoln, and his book will never perish; he has been ambassador, brilliant orator, competent and admirable Secretary of State.
MARK TWAIN.
(_To be Continued._) NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW No.

DCX.
MARCH 1, 1907..