But he did not realize this, and, as the evening approached,
his dread of failure increased. Arriving at the theater, he entered by
the stage door, half expecting to find the place empty. Then, suddenly,
he became more frightened than ever; peering from the wings, he saw that
the house was jammed--packed from the footlights to the walls!
Terrified, his knees shaking, his tongue dry, he managed to emerge, and
was greeted with a roar, a crash of applause that nearly finished him.
Only for an instant--reaction followed; these people were his friends,
and he was talking to them. He forgot to be afraid, and, as the applause
came in great billows that rose ever higher, he felt himself borne with
it as on a tide of happiness and success. His evening, from beginning to
end, was a complete triumph. Friends declared that for descriptive
eloquence, humor, and real entertainment nothing like his address had
ever been delivered. The morning papers were enthusiastic.
Mark Twain no longer hesitated as to what he should do now. He would
lecture. The book idea no longer attracted him; the appearance of the
"Hornet" article, signed, through a printer's error, "Mark Swain," cooled
his desire to be a magazine contributor.
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