The Letters Of Mark Twain, Complete


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know it; they are temporarily insane, yet with one voice they  
declare the assassin sane--a man who has been entertaining fiery and  
reason--debauching maggots in his head for weeks and months. Why, no  
one  
is sane, straight along, year in and year out, and we all know it.  
Our insanities are of varying sorts, and express themselves in varying  
forms--fortunately harmless forms as a rule--but in whatever form  
they occur an immense upheaval of feeling can at any time topple us  
distinctly over the sanity-line for a little while; and then if our form  
happens to be of the murderous kind we must look out--and so must the  
spectator.  
This ass with the unpronounceable name was probably more insane than  
usual this week or two back, and may get back upon his bearings by and  
by, but he was over the sanity-border when he shot the President. It is  
possible that it has taken him the whole interval since the murder of  
the King of Italy to get insane enough to attempt the President's life.  
Without a doubt some thousands of men have been meditating the same act  
in the same interval, but new and strong interests have intervened and  
diverted their over-excited minds long enough to give them a chance to  
settle, and tranquilize, and get back upon a healthy level again. Every  
extraordinary occurrence unsettles the heads of hundreds of thousands  
of men for a few moments or hours or days. If there had been ten kings  
around when Humbert fell they would have been in great peril for a day  
or more--and from men in whose presence they would have been quite safe  
after the excess of their excitement had had an interval in which to  
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