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diff --git a/3198-h/3198-h.htm b/3198-h/3198-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7f0549c --- /dev/null +++ b/3198-h/3198-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2537 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Mark Twain's Letters 1907-1910, by Mark Twain + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 6, +1907-1910, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 6, 1907-1910 + +Author: Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +Release Date: August 21, 2006 [EBook #3198] +Last Updated: February 24, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWAIN LETTERS, VOL. 6 *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + MARK TWAIN'S LETTERS 1907-1910 + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + VOLUME VI. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Mark Twain + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + ARRANGED WITH COMMENT <br /> BY ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary=""> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>XLVI.</b><br /> LETTERS 1907-08. A + DEGREE FROM OXFORD. THE NEW HOME AT REDDING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>XLVII.</b><br /> LETTERS, 1909. TO + HOWELLS AND OTHERS. LIFE AT STORMFIELD. COPYRIGHT EXTENSION. DEATH + OF JEAN CLEMENS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>XLVIII.</b><br /> LETTERS OF 1910. LAST + TRIP TO BERMUDA. LETTERS TO PAINE. THE LAST LETTER. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + XLVI. LETTERS 1907-08. A DEGREE FROM OXFORD. THE NEW HOME AT REDDING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The author, J. Howard Moore, sent a copy of his book, The Universal + Kinship, with a letter in which he said: “Most humorists have no + anxiety except to glorify themselves and add substance to their + pocket-books by making their readers laugh. You have shown, on many + occasions, that your mission is not simply to antidote the + melancholy of a world, but includes a real and intelligent concern + for the general welfare of your fellowman.” + + The Universal Kinship was the kind of a book that Mark Twain + appreciated, as his acknowledgment clearly shows. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mr. J. Howard Moore: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Feb. 2, '07. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. MOORE, The book has furnished me several days of deep pleasure + and satisfaction; it has compelled my gratitude at the same time, since it + saves me the labor of stating my own long-cherished opinions and + reflections and resentments by doing it lucidly and fervently and + irascibly for me. + </p> + <p> + There is one thing that always puzzles me: as inheritors of the mentality + of our reptile ancestors we have improved the inheritance by a thousand + grades; but in the matter of the morals which they left us we have gone + backward as many grades. That evolution is strange, and to me + unaccountable and unnatural. Necessarily we started equipped with their + perfect and blemishless morals; now we are wholly destitute; we have no + real, morals, but only artificial ones—morals created and preserved + by the forced suppression of natural and hellish instincts. Yet we are + dull enough to be vain of them. Certainly we are a sufficiently comical + invention, we humans. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely Yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mark Twain's own books were always being excommunicated by some + librarian, and the matter never failed to invite the attention and + amusement of the press, and the indignation of many correspondents. + Usually the books were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, the morals of which + were not regarded as wholly exemplary. But in 1907 a small library, + in a very small town, attained a day's national notoriety by putting + the ban on Eve's Diary, not so much on account of its text as for + the chaste and exquisite illustrations by Lester Ralph. When the + reporters came in a troop to learn about it, the author said: “I + believe this time the trouble is mainly with the pictures. I did + not draw them. I wish I had—they are so beautiful.” + + Just at this time, Dr. William Lyon Phelps, of Yale, was giving a + literary talk to the Teachers' Club, of Hartford, dwelling on the + superlative value of Mark Twain's writings for readers old and + young. Mrs. F. G. Whitmore, an old Hartford friend, wrote Clemens + of the things that Phelps had said, as consolation for Eve's latest + banishment. This gave him a chance to add something to what he had + said to the reporters. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Whitmore, in Hartford: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Feb. 7, 1907. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. WHITMORE,—But the truth is, that when a Library expels a + book of mine and leaves an unexpurgated Bible lying around where + unprotected youth and age can get hold of it, the deep unconscious irony + of it delights me and doesn't anger me. But even if it angered me such + words as those of Professor Phelps would take the sting all out. Nobody + attaches weight to the freaks of the Charlton Library, but when a man like + Phelps speaks, the world gives attention. Some day I hope to meet him and + thank him for his courage for saying those things out in public. Custom + is, to think a handsome thing in private but tame it down in the + utterance. + </p> + <p> + I hope you are all well and happy; and thereto I add my love. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In May, 1907, Mark Twain was invited to England to receive from + Oxford the degree of Literary Doctor. It was an honor that came to + him as a sort of laurel crown at the end of a great career, and + gratified him exceedingly. To Moberly Bell, of the London Times, + he expressed his appreciation. Bell had been over in April and + Clemens believed him concerned in the matter. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Moberly Bell, in London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 21 FIFTH AVENUE, May 3, '07 +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. BELL,—Your hand is in it! and you have my best thanks. + Although I wouldn't cross an ocean again for the price of the ship that + carried me, I am glad to do it for an Oxford degree. I shall plan to sail + for England a shade before the middle of June, so that I can have a few + days in London before the 26th. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He had taken a house at Tuxedo for the summer, desiring to be near + New York City, and in the next letter he writes Mr. Rogers + concerning his London plans. We discover, also, in this letter that + he has begun work on the Redding home and the cost is to come + entirely out of the autobiographical chapters then running in the + North American Review. It may be of passing interest to note here + that he had the usual house-builder's fortune. He received thirty + thousand dollars for the chapters; the house cost him nearly double + that amount. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To H. H. Rogers, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TUXEDO PARK, + May 29, '07. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR ADMIRAL,—Why hang it, I am not going to see you and Mrs. Rogers + at all in England! It is a great disappointment. I leave there a month + from now—June 29. No, I shall see you; for by your itinerary you are + most likely to come to London June 21st or along there. So that is very + good and satisfactory. I have declined all engagements but two—Whitelaw + Reid (dinner) June 21, and the Pilgrims (lunch), June 25. The Oxford + ceremony is June 26. I have paid my return passage in the Minne-something, + but it is just possible that I may want to stay in England a week or two + longer—I can't tell, yet. I do very much want to meet up with the + boys for the last time. + </p> + <p> + I have signed the contract for the building of the house on my Connecticut + farm and specified the cost limit, and work has been begun. The cost has + to all come out of a year's instalments of Autobiography in the N. A. + Review. + </p> + <p> + Clara, is winning her way to success and distinction with sure and steady + strides. By all accounts she is singing like a bird, and is not afraid on + the concert stage any more. + </p> + <p> + Tuxedo is a charming place; I think it hasn't its equal anywhere. + </p> + <p> + Very best wishes to you both. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The story of Mark Twain's extraordinary reception and triumph in + England has been told.—[Mark Twain; A Biography, chaps. cclvi- + cclix]—It was, in fact, the crowning glory of his career. Perhaps + one of the most satisfactory incidents of his sojourn was a dinner + given to him by the staff of Punch, in the historic offices at 10 + Bouverie Street where no other foreign visitor had been thus + honored—a notable distinction. When the dinner ended, little joy + Agnew, daughter of the chief editor, entered and presented to the + chief guest the original drawing of a cartoon by Bernard Partridge, + which had appeared on the front page of Punch. In this picture the + presiding genius of the paper is offering to Mark Twain health, long + life, and happiness from “The Punch Bowl.” + + A short time after his return to America he received a pretty + childish letter from little Miss Agnew acknowledging a photograph he + had sent her, and giving a list of her pets and occupations. Such a + letter always delighted Mark Twain, and his pleasure in this one is + reflected in his reply. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Miss Joy Agnew, in London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TUXEDO PARK, NEW YORK. +</pre> + <p> + Unto you greetings and salutation and worship, you dear, sweet little + rightly-named Joy! I can see you now almost as vividly as I saw you that + night when you sat flashing and beaming upon those sombre swallow-tails. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fair as a star when only one + Is shining in the sky.” + </pre> + <p> + Oh, you were indeed the only one—there wasn't even the remotest + chance of competition with you, dear! Ah, you are a decoration, you little + witch! + </p> + <p> + The idea of your house going to the wanton expense of a flower garden!—aren't + you enough? And what do you want to go and discourage the other flowers + for? Is that the right spirit? is it considerate? is it kind? How do you + suppose they feel when you come around—looking the way you look? And + you so pink and sweet and dainty and lovely and supernatural? Why, it + makes them feel embarrassed and artificial, of course; and in my opinion + it is just as pathetic as it can be. Now then you want to reform—dear—and + do right. + </p> + <p> + Well certainly you are well off, Joy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 3 bantams; + 3 goldfish; + 3 doves; + 6 canaries; + 2 dogs; + 1 cat; +</pre> + <p> + All you need, now, to be permanently beyond the reach of want, is one more + dog—just one more good, gentle, high principled, affectionate, loyal + dog who wouldn't want any nobler service than the golden privilege of + lying at your door, nights, and biting everything that came along—and + I am that very one, and ready to come at the dropping of a hat. + </p> + <p> + Do you think you could convey my love and thanks to your “daddy” and Owen + Seaman and those other oppressed and down-trodden subjects of yours, you + darling small tyrant? + </p> + <p> + On my knees! These—with the kiss of fealty from your other subject— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARK TWAIN +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Elinor Glyn, author of Three Weeks and other erotic tales, was in + America that winter and asked permission to call on Mark Twain. An + appointment was made and Clemens discussed with her, for an hour or + more, those crucial phases of life which have made living a complex + problem since the days of Eve in Eden. Mrs. Glyn had never before + heard anything like Mark Twain's wonderful talk, and she was anxious + to print their interview. She wrote what she could remember of it + and sent it to him for approval. If his conversation had been + frank, his refusal was hardly less so. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Elinor Glyn, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jan. 22, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. GLYN, It reads pretty poorly—I get the sense of it, but it + is a poor literary job; however, it would have to be that because nobody + can be reported even approximately, except by a stenographer. + Approximations, synopsized speeches, translated poems, artificial flowers + and chromos all have a sort of value, but it is small. If you had put upon + paper what I really said it would have wrecked your type-machine. I said + some fetid, over-vigorous things, but that was because it was a + confidential conversation. I said nothing for print. My own report of the + same conversation reads like Satan roasting a Sunday school. It, and + certain other readable chapters of my autobiography will not be published + until all the Clemens family are dead—dead and correspondingly + indifferent. They were written to entertain me, not the rest of the world. + I am not here to do good—at least not to do it intentionally. You + must pardon me for dictating this letter; I am sick a-bed and not feeling + as well as I might. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely Yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Among the cultured men of England Mark Twain had no greater admirer, + or warmer friend, than Andrew Lang. They were at one on most + literary subjects, and especially so in their admiration of the life + and character of Joan of Arc. Both had written of her, and both + held her to be something almost more than mortal. When, therefore, + Anatole France published his exhaustive biography of the maid of + Domremy, a book in which he followed, with exaggerated minuteness + and innumerable footnotes, every step of Joan's physical career at + the expense of her spiritual life, which he was inclined to cheapen, + Lang wrote feelingly, and with some contempt, of the performance, + inviting the author of the Personal Recollections to come to the + rescue of their heroine. “Compare every one of his statements with + the passages he cites from authorities, and make him the laughter of + the world” he wrote. “If you are lazy about comparing I can make + you a complete set of what the authorities say, and of what this + amazing novelist says that they say. When I tell you that he thinks + the Epiphany (January 6, Twelfth Night) is December 25th—Christmas + Day-you begin to see what an egregious ass he is. Treat him like + Dowden, and oblige”—a reference to Mark Twain's defense of Harriet + Shelley, in which he had heaped ridicule on Dowden's Life of the + Poet—a masterly performance; one of the best that ever came from + Mark Twain's pen. + + Lang's suggestion would seem to have been a welcome one. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Andrew Lang, in London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NEW YORK, April 25, 1908. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. LANG,—I haven't seen the book nor any review of it, but + only not very-understandable references to it—of a sort which + discomforted me, but of course set my interest on fire. I don't want to + have to read it in French—I should lose the nice shades, and should + do a lot of gross misinterpreting, too. But there'll be a translation + soon, nicht wahr? I will wait for it. I note with joy that you say: “If + you are lazy about comparing, (which I most certainly am), I can make you + a complete set of what the authorities say, and of what this amazing + novelist says that they say.” + </p> + <p> + Ah, do it for me! Then I will attempt the article, and (if I succeed in + doing it to my satisfaction,) will publish it. It is long since I touched + a pen (3 1/2 years), and I was intending to continue this happy holiday to + the gallows, but—there are things that could beguile me to break + this blessed Sabbath. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours very sincerely, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Certainly it is an interesting fact that an Englishman—one of the + race that burned Joan—should feel moved to defend her memory + against the top-heavy perversions of a distinguished French author. + + But Lang seems never to have sent the notes. The copying would have + been a tremendous task, and perhaps he never found the time for it. + We may regret to-day that he did not, for Mark Twain's article on + the French author's Joan would have been at least unique. + + Samuel Clemens could never accustom himself to the loss of his wife. + From the time of her death, marriage-which had brought him his + greatest joy in life-presented itself to him always with the thought + of bereavement, waiting somewhere just behind. The news of an + approaching wedding saddened him and there was nearly always a + somber tinge in his congratulations, of which the following to a + dear friend is an example: +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Father Fitz-Simon, in Washington: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June 5, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR FATHER FITZ-SIMON,—Marriage—yes, it is the supreme + felicity of life, I concede it. And it is also the supreme tragedy of + life. The deeper the love the surer the tragedy. And the more + disconsolating when it comes. + </p> + <p> + And so I congratulate you. Not perfunctorily, not lukewarmly, but with a + fervency and fire that no word in the dictionary is strong enough to + convey. And in the same breath and with the same depth and sincerity, I + grieve for you. Not for both of you and not for the one that shall go + first, but for the one that is fated to be left behind. For that one there + is no recompense.—For that one no recompense is possible. + </p> + <p> + There are times—thousands of times—when I can expose the half + of my mind, and conceal the other half, but in the matter of the tragedy + of marriage I feel too deeply for that, and I have to bleed it all out or + shut it all in. And so you must consider what I have been through, and am + passing through and be charitable with me. + </p> + <p> + Make the most of the sunshine! and I hope it will last long—ever so + long. + </p> + <p> + I do not really want to be present; yet for friendship's sake and because + I honor you so, I would be there if I could. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Most sincerely your friend, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The new home at Redding was completed in the spring of 1908, and on + the 18th of June, when it was entirely fitted and furnished, Mark + Twain entered it for the first time. He had never even seen the + place nor carefully examined plans which John Howells had made for + his house. He preferred the surprise of it, and the general + avoidance of detail. That he was satisfied with the result will be + seen in his letters. He named it at first “Innocence at Home”; + later changing this title to “Stormfield.” + + The letter which follows is an acknowledgment of an interesting + souvenir from the battle-field of Tewksbury (1471), and some relics + of the Cavalier and Roundhead Regiments encamped at Tewksbury in + 1643. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To an English admirer: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + INNOCENCE AT HOME, REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + Aug. 15, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—I highly prize the pipes, and shall intimate to people + that “Raleigh” smoked them, and doubtless he did. After a little practice + I shall be able to go further and say he did; they will then be the most + interesting features of my library's decorations. The Horse-shoe is + attracting a good deal of attention, because I have intimated that the + conqueror's horse cast it; it will attract more when I get my hand in and + say he cast it, I thank you for the pipes and the shoe; and also for the + official guide, which I read through at a single sitting. If a person + should say that about a book of mine I should regard it as good evidence + of the book's interest. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In his philosophy, What Is Man?, and now and again in his other + writings, we find Mark Twain giving small credit to the human mind + as an originator of ideas. The most original writer of his time, he + took no credit for pure invention and allowed none to others. The + mind, he declared, adapted, consciously or unconsciously; it did not + create. In a letter which follows he elucidates this doctrine. The + reference in it to the “captain” and to the kerosene, as the reader + may remember, have to do with Captain “Hurricane” Jones and his + theory of the miracles of “Isaac and of the prophets of Baal,” as + expounded in Some Rambling Notes of an Idle Excursion. + + By a trick of memory Clemens gives The Little Duke as his suggestion + for The Prince and the Pauper; he should have written The Prince and + the Page, by the same author. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Rev. F. Y. Christ, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REDDING, CONN., Aug., '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—You say “I often owe my best sermons to a suggestion + received in reading or from other exterior sources.” Your remark is not + quite in accordance with the facts. We must change it to—“I owe all + my thoughts, sermons and ideas to suggestions received from sources + outside of myself.” The simplified English of this proposition is—“No + man's brains ever originated an idea.” It is an astonishing thing that + after all these ages the world goes on thinking the human brain machinery + can originate a thought. + </p> + <p> + It can't. It never has done it. In all cases, little and big, the thought + is born of a suggestion; and in all cases the suggestions come to the + brain from the outside. The brain never acts except from exterior impulse. + </p> + <p> + A man can satisfy himself of the truth of this by a single process,—let + him examine every idea that occurs to him in an hour; a day; in a week—in + a lifetime if he please. He will always find that an outside something + suggested the thought, something which he saw with his eyes or heard with + his ears or perceived by his touch—not necessarily to-day, nor + yesterday, nor last year, nor twenty years ago, but sometime or other. + Usually the source of the suggestion is immediately traceable, but + sometimes it isn't. + </p> + <p> + However, if you will examine every thought that occurs to you for the next + two days, you will find that in at least nine cases out of ten you can put + your finger on the outside suggestion—And that ought to convince you + that No. 10 had that source too, although you cannot at present hunt it + down and find it. + </p> + <p> + The idea of writing to me would have had to wait a long time if it waited + until your brain originated it. It was born of an outside suggestion—Sir + Thomas and my old Captain. + </p> + <p> + The hypnotist thinks he has invented a new thing—suggestion. This is + very sad. I don't know where my captain got his kerosene idea. (It was + forty-one years ago, and he is long ago dead.) But I know that it didn't + originate in his head, but it was born from a suggestion from the outside. + </p> + <p> + Yesterday a guest said, “How did you come to think of writing 'The Prince + and the Pauper?'” I didn't. The thought came to me from the outside—suggested + by that pleasant and picturesque little history-book, Charlotte M. Yonge's + “Little Duke,” I doubt if Mrs. Burnett knows whence came to her the + suggestion to write “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” but I know; it came to her + from reading “The Prince and the Pauper.” In all my life I have never + originated an idea, and neither has she, nor anybody else. + </p> + <p> + Man's mind is a clever machine, and can work up materials into ingenious + fancies and ideas, but it can't create the material; none but the gods can + do that. In Sweden I saw a vast machine receive a block of wood, and turn + it into marketable matches in two minutes. It could do everything but make + the wood. That is the kind of machine the human mind is. Maybe this is not + a large compliment, but it is all I can afford..... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Your friend and well-wisher + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. H. H. Rogers, in Fair Hawn, Mass.: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REDDING, CONN, Aug. 12, 1908. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. ROGERS, I believe I am the wellest man on the planet to-day, and + good for a trip to Fair Haven (which I discussed with the Captain of the + New Bedford boat, who pleasantly accosted me in the Grand Central August + 5) but the doctor came up from New York day before yesterday, and gave + positive orders that I must not stir from here before frost. It is because + I was threatened with a swoon, 10 or 12 days ago, and went to New York a + day or two later to attend my nephew's funeral and got horribly exhausted + by the heat and came back here and had a bilious collapse. In 24 hours I + was as sound as a nut again, but nobody believes it but me. + </p> + <p> + This is a prodigiously satisfactory place, and I am so glad I don't have + to go back to the turmoil and rush of New York. The house stands high and + the horizons are wide, yet the seclusion is perfect. The nearest public + road is half a mile away, so there is nobody to look in, and I don't have + to wear clothes if I don't want to. I have been down stairs in night-gown + and slippers a couple of hours, and have been photographed in that + costume; but I will dress, now, and behave myself. + </p> + <p> + That doctor had half an idea that there is something the matter with my + brain... Doctors do know so little and they do charge so much for it. I + wish Henry Rogers would come here, and I wish you would come with him. You + can't rest in that crowded place, but you could rest here, for sure! I + would learn bridge, and entertain you, and rob you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With love to you both, + Ever yours, + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the foregoing letter we get the first intimation of Mark Twain's + failing health. The nephew who had died was Samuel E. Moffett, son + of Pamela Clemens. Moffett, who was a distinguished journalist—an + editorial writer on Collier's Weekly, a man beloved by all who knew + him—had been drowned in the surf off the Jersey beach. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, Kittery Point, Maine: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aug. 12, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—Won't you and Mrs. Howells and Mildred come and give + us as many days as you can spare, and examine John's triumph? It is the + most satisfactory house I am acquainted with, and the most satisfactorily + situated. + </p> + <p> + But it is no place to work in, because one is outside of it all the time, + while the sun and the moon are on duty. Outside of it in the loggia, where + the breezes blow and the tall arches divide up the scenery and frame it. + </p> + <p> + It's a ghastly long distance to come, and I wouldn't travel such a + distance to see anything short of a memorial museum, but if you can't come + now you can at least come later when you return to New York, for the + journey will be only an hour and a half per express-train. Things are + gradually and steadily taking shape inside the house, and nature is taking + care of the outside in her ingenious and wonderful fashion—and she + is competent and asks no help and gets none. I have retired from New York + for good, I have retired from labor for good, I have dismissed my + stenographer and have entered upon a holiday whose other end is in the + cemetery. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours ever, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From a gentleman in Buffalo Clemens one day received a letter + inclosing an incompleted list of the world's “One Hundred Greatest + Men,” men who had exerted “the largest visible influence on the life + and activities of the race.” The writer asked that Mark Twain + examine the list and suggest names, adding “would you include Jesus, + as the founder of Christianity, in the list?” + + To the list of statesmen Clemens added the name of Thomas Paine; to + the list of inventors, Edison and Alexander Graham Bell. The + question he answered in detail. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To ———, Buffalo, N. Y. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Private. REDDING, CONN, Aug. 28, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—By “private,” I mean don't print any remarks of mine. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + .................. +I like your list. +</pre> + <p> + The “largest visible influence.” + </p> + <p> + These terms require you to add Jesus. And they doubly and trebly require + you to add Satan. From A.D. 350 to A.D. 1850 these gentlemen exercised a + vaster influence over a fifth part of the human race than was exercised + over that fraction of the race by all other influences combined. + Ninety-nine hundredths of this influence proceeded from Satan, the + remaining fraction of it from Jesus. During those 1500 years the fear of + Satan and Hell made 99 Christians where love of God and Heaven landed one. + During those 1500 years, Satan's influence was worth very nearly a hundred + times as much to the business as was the influence of all the rest of the + Holy Family put together. + </p> + <p> + You have asked me a question, and I have answered it seriously and + sincerely. You have put in Buddha—a god, with a following, at one + time, greater than Jesus ever had: a god with perhaps a little better + evidence of his godship than that which is offered for Jesus's. How then, + in fairness, can you leave Jesus out? And if you put him in, how can you + logically leave Satan out? Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it + is the lightning that does the work. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The “Children's Theatre” of the next letter was an institution of + the New York East Side in which Mark Twain was deeply interested. + The children were most, if not all, of Hebrew parentage, and the + performances they gave, under the direction of Alice M. Herts, were + really remarkable. It seemed a pity that lack of funds should have + brought this excellent educational venture to an untimely end. + + The following letter was in reply to one inclosing a newspaper + clipping reporting a performance of The Prince and the Pauper, given + by Chicago school children. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Hookway, in Chicago: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sept., 1908. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. HOOKWAY,—Although I am full of the spirit of work this + morning, a rarity with me lately—I must steal a moment or two for a + word in person: for I have been reading the eloquent account in the + Record-Herald and am pleasurably stirred, to my deepest deeps. The reading + brings vividly back to me my pet and pride. The Children's Theatre of the + East side, New York. And it supports and re-affirms what I have so often + and strenuously said in public that a children's theatre is easily the + most valuable adjunct that any educational institution for the young can + have, and that no otherwise good school is complete without it. + </p> + <p> + It is much the most effective teacher of morals and promoter of good + conduct that the ingenuity of man has yet devised, for the reason that its + lessons are not taught wearily by book and by dreary homily, but by + visible and enthusing action; and they go straight to the heart, which is + the rightest of right places for them. Book morals often get no further + than the intellect, if they even get that far on their spectral and + shadowy pilgrimage: but when they travel from a Children's Theatre they do + not stop permanently at that halfway house, but go on home. + </p> + <p> + The children's theatre is the only teacher of morals and conduct and high + ideals that never bores the pupil, but always leaves him sorry when the + lesson is over. And as for history, no other teacher is for a moment + comparable to it: no other can make the dead heroes of the world rise up + and shake the dust of the ages from their bones and live and move and + breathe and speak and be real to the looker and listener: no other can + make the study of the lives and times of the illustrious dead a delight, a + splendid interest, a passion; and no other can paint a history-lesson in + colors that will stay, and stay, and never fade. + </p> + <p> + It is my conviction that the children's theatre is one of the very, very + great inventions of the twentieth century; and that its vast educational + value—now but dimly perceived and but vaguely understood—will + presently come to be recognized. By the article which I have been reading + I find the same things happening in the Howland School that we have become + familiar with in our Children's Theatre (of which I am President, and + sufficiently vain of the distinction.) These things among others; + </p> + <p> + 1. The educating history-study does not stop with the little players, but + the whole school catches the infection and revels in it. + </p> + <p> + 2. And it doesn't even stop there; the children carry it home and infect + the family with it—even the parents and grandparents; and the whole + household fall to studying history, and bygone manners and customs and + costumes with eager interest. And this interest is carried along to the + studying of costumes in old book-plates; and beyond that to the selecting + of fabrics and the making of clothes. Hundreds of our children learn, the + plays by listening without book, and by making notes; then the listener + goes home and plays the piece—all the parts! to the family. And the + family are glad and proud; glad to listen to the explanations and + analyses, glad to learn, glad to be lifted to planes above their dreary + workaday lives. Our children's theatre is educating 7,000 children—and + their families. When we put on a play of Shakespeare they fall to studying + it diligently; so that they may be qualified to enjoy it to the limit when + the piece is staged. + </p> + <p> + 3. Your Howland School children do the construction-work, + stage-decorations, etc. That is our way too. Our young folks do everything + that is needed by the theatre, with their own hands; scene-designing, + scene-painting, gas-fitting, electric work, costume-designing—costume + making, everything and all things indeed—and their orchestra and its + leader are from their own ranks. + </p> + <p> + The article which I have been reading, says—speaking of the + historical play produced by the pupils of the Howland School— + </p> + <p> + “The question naturally arises, What has this drama done for those who so + enthusiastically took part?—The touching story has made a year out + of the Past live for the children as could no chronology or bald statement + of historical events; it has cultivated the fancy and given to the + imagination strength and purity; work in composition has ceased to be + drudgery, for when all other themes fall flat a subject dealing with some + aspect of the drama presented never fails to arouse interest and a rapid + pushing of pens over paper.” + </p> + <p> + That is entirely true. The interest is not confined to the drama's story, + it spreads out all around the period of the story, and gives to all the + outlying and unrelated happenings of that period a fascinating interest—an + interest which does not fade out with the years, but remains always fresh, + always inspiring, always welcome. History-facts dug by the job, with sweat + and tears out of a dry and spiritless text-book—but never mind, all + who have suffered know what that is... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I remain, dear madam, + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mark Twain had a special fondness for cats. As a boy he always + owned one and it generally had a seat beside him at the table. + There were cats at Quarry Farm and at Hartford, and in the house at + Redding there was a gray mother-cat named Tammany, of which he was + especially fond. Kittens capering about were his chief delight. + In a letter to a Chicago woman he tells how those of Tammany + assisted at his favorite game. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Mabel Larkin Patterson, in Chicago: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + Oct. 2, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MRS. PATTERSON,—The contents of your letter are very pleasant + and very welcome, and I thank you for them, sincerely. If I can find a + photograph of my “Tammany” and her kittens, I will enclose it in this. + </p> + <p> + One of them likes to be crammed into a corner-pocket of the billiard table—which + he fits as snugly as does a finger in a glove and then he watches the game + (and obstructs it) by the hour, and spoils many a shot by putting out his + paw and changing the direction of a passing ball. Whenever a ball is in + his arms, or so close to him that it cannot be played upon without risk of + hurting him, the player is privileged to remove it to anyone of the 3 + spots that chances to be vacant. + </p> + <p> + Ah, no, my lecturing days are over for good and all. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The letter to Howells which follows was written a short time before + the passage of the copyright extension bill, which rendered Mark + Twain's new plan, here mentioned, unneeded—at least for the time. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Monday, Oct. 26, '08. + </pre> + <p> + Oh, I say! Where are you hiding, and why are you hiding? You promised to + come here and you didn't keep your word. (This sounds like astonishment—but + don't be misled by that.) + </p> + <p> + Come, fire up again on your fiction-mill and give us another good promise. + And this time keep it—for it is your turn to be astonished. Come and + stay as long as you possibly can. I invented a new copyright extension + scheme last Friday, and sat up all night arranging its details. It will + interest you. Yesterday I got it down on paper in as compact a form as I + could. Harvey and I have examined the scheme, and to-morrow or next day he + will send me a couple of copyright-experts to arrange about getting + certain statistics for me. + </p> + <p> + Authors, publishers and the public have always been damaged by the + copyright laws. The proposed amendment will advantage all three—the + public most of all. I think Congress will pass it and settle the vexed + question permanently. + </p> + <p> + I shall need your assent and the assent of about a dozen other authors. + Also the assent of all the large firms of the 300 publishers. These + authors and publishers will furnish said assent I am sure. Not even the + pirates will be able to furnish a serious objection, I think. + </p> + <p> + Come along. This place seemed at its best when all around was + summer-green; later it seemed at its best when all around was burning with + the autumn splendors; and now once more it seems at its best, with the + trees naked and the ground a painter's palette. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours ever, + MARK. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens was a great admirer of the sea stories of W. W. Jacobs and + generally kept one or more of this author's volumes in reach of his + bed, where most of his reading was done. The acknowledgment that + follows was sent when he had finished Salthaven. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. W. Jacobs, in England: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REDDING, CONN, + Oct. 28, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. JACOBS,—It has a delightful look. I will not venture to say + how delightful, because the words would sound extravagant, and would + thereby lose some of their strength and to that degree misrepresent me. It + is my conviction that Dialstone Lane holds the supremacy over all purely + humorous books in our language, but I feel about Salthaven as the Cape Cod + poet feels about Simon Hanks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Lord knows all things, great and small, + With doubt he's not perplexed: + 'Tis Him alone that knows it all + But Simon Hanks comes next.” + </pre> + <p> + The poet was moved by envy and malice and jealousy, but I am not: I place + Salthaven close up next to Dialstone because I think it has a fair and + honest right to that high position. I have kept the other book moving; I + shall begin to hand this one around now. + </p> + <p> + And many thanks to you for remembering me. + </p> + <p> + This house is out in the solitudes of the woods and the hills, an hour and + a half from New York, and I mean to stay in it winter and summer the rest + of my days. I beg you to come and help occupy it a few days the next time + you visit the U.S. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One of the attractions of Stormfield was a beautiful mantel in the + billiard room, presented by the Hawaiian Promotion Committee. It + had not arrived when the rest of the house was completed, but came + in time to be set in place early in the morning of the owner's + seventy-third birthday. It was made of a variety of Hawaiian woods, + and was the work of a native carver, F. M. Otremba. Clemens was + deeply touched by the offering from those “western isles”—the + memory of which was always so sweet to him. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mr. Wood, in Hawaii: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nov. 30, '08. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. WOOD,—The beautiful mantel was put in its place an hour + ago, and its friendly “Aloha” was the first uttered greeting my 73rd + birthday received. It is rich in color, rich in quality, and rich in + decoration, therefore it exactly harmonizes with the taste for such things + which was born in me and which I have seldom been able to indulge to my + content. It will be a great pleasure to me, daily renewed, to have under + my eye this lovely reminder of the loveliest fleet of islands that lies + anchored in any ocean, and I beg to thank the Committee for providing me + that pleasure. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely Yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLVII. LETTERS, 1909. TO HOWELLS AND OTHERS. LIFE AT STORMFIELD. COPYRIGHT + EXTENSION. DEATH OF JEAN CLEMENS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens remained at Stormfield all that winter. New York was sixty + miles away and he did not often care to make the journey. He was + constantly invited to this or that public gathering, or private + party, but such affairs had lost interest for him. He preferred the + quiet of his luxurious home with its beautiful outlook, while for + entertainment he found the billiard afternoons sufficient. Guests + came from the city, now and again, for week-end visits, and if he + ever was restless or lonely he did not show it. + + Among the invitations that came was one from General O. O. Howard + asking him to preside at a meeting to raise an endowment fund for a + Lincoln Memorial University at Cumberland Gap, Tennessee. Closing + his letter, General Howard said, “Never mind if you did fight on the + other side.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To General O. O. Howard: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + Jan, 12, '09. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR GENERAL HOWARD,—You pay me a most gratifying compliment in + asking me to preside, and it causes me very real regret that I am obliged + to decline, for the object of the meeting appeals strongly to me, since + that object is to aid in raising the $500,000 Endowment Fund for Lincoln + Memorial University. The Endowment Fund will be the most fitting of all + the memorials the country will dedicate to the memory of Lincoln, serving, + as it will, to uplift his very own people. + </p> + <p> + I hope you will meet with complete success, and I am sorry I cannot be + there to witness it and help you rejoice. But I am older than people + think, and besides I live away out in the country and never stir from + home, except at geological intervals, to fill left-over engagements in + mesozoic times when I was younger and indiscreeter. + </p> + <p> + You ought not to say sarcastic things about my “fighting on the other + side.” General Grant did not act like that. General Grant paid me + compliments. He bracketed me with Zenophon—it is there in his + Memoirs for anybody to read. He said if all the confederate soldiers had + followed my example and adopted my military arts he could never have + caught enough of them in a bunch to inconvenience the Rebellion. General + Grant was a fair man, and recognized my worth; but you are prejudiced, and + you have hurt my feelings. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But I have an affection for you, anyway. + MARK TWAIN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One of Mark Twain's friends was Henniker-Heaton, the so-called + “Father of Penny Postage” between England and America. When, after + long years of effort, he succeeded in getting the rate established, + he at once bent his energies in the direction of cheap cable service + and a letter from him came one day to Stormfield concerning his new + plans. This letter happened to be over-weight, which gave Mark + Twain a chance for some amusing exaggerations at his expense. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Henniker-Heaton, in London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + Jan. 18, 1909. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HENNIKER-HEATON,—I do hope you will succeed to your heart's + desire in your cheap-cablegram campaign, and I feel sure you will. Indeed + your cheap-postage victory, achieved in spite of a quarter-century of + determined opposition, is good and rational prophecy that you will. + Wireless, not being as yet imprisoned in a Chinese wall of private cash + and high-placed and formidable influence, will come to your aid and make + your new campaign briefer and easier than the other one was. + </p> + <p> + Now then, after uttering my serious word, am I privileged to be frivolous + for a moment? When you shall have achieved cheap telegraphy, are you going + to employ it for just your own selfish profit and other people's pecuniary + damage, the way you are doing with your cheap postage? You get + letter-postage reduced to 2 cents an ounce, then you mail me a 4-ounce + letter with a 2-cent stamp on it, and I have to pay the extra freight at + this end of the line. I return your envelope for inspection. Look at it. + Stamped in one place is a vast “T,” and under it the figures “40,” and + under those figures appears an “L,” a sinister and suspicious and + mysterious L. In another place, stamped within a circle, in offensively + large capitals, you find the words “DUE 8 CENTS.” Finally, in the midst of + a desert space up nor-noreastard from that circle you find a figure “3” of + quite unnecessarily aggressive and insolent magnitude—and done with + a blue pencil, so as to be as conspicuous as possible. I inquired about + these strange signs and symbols of the postman. He said they were P. O. + Department signals for his instruction. + </p> + <p> + “Instruction for what?” + </p> + <p> + “To get extra postage.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so? Explain. Tell me about the large T and the 40. + </p> + <p> + “It's short for Take 40—or as we postmen say, grab 40” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, please, while I think up some words to swear with.” + </p> + <p> + “Due 8 means, grab 8 more.” + </p> + <p> + “Continue.” + </p> + <p> + “The blue-pencil 3 was an afterthought. There aren't any stamps for + afterthoughts; the sums vary, according to inspiration, and they whirl in + the one that suggests itself at the last moment. Sometimes they go several + times higher than this one. This one only means hog 3 cents more. And so + if you've got 51 cents about you, or can borrow it—” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me: who gets this corruption?” + </p> + <p> + “Half of it goes to the man in England who ships the letter on short + postage, and the other half goes to the P.O.D. to protect cheap postage + from inaugurating a deficit.” + </p> + <p> + “—————————-” + </p> + <p> + “I can't blame you; I would say it myself in your place, if these ladies + were not present. But you see I'm only obeying orders, I can't help + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know it; I'm not blaming you. Finally, what does that L stand for?” + </p> + <p> + “Get the money, or give him L. It's English, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Take it and go. It's the last cent I've got in the world—.” + </p> + <p> + After seeing the Oxford pageant file by the grand stand, picture after + picture, splendor after splendor, three thousand five hundred strong, the + most moving and beautiful and impressive and historically-instructive show + conceivable, you are not to think I would miss the London pageant of next + year, with its shining host of 15,000 historical English men and women dug + from the misty books of all the vanished ages and marching in the light of + the sun—all alive, and looking just as they were used to look! Mr. + Lascelles spent yesterday here on the farm, and told me all about it. I + shall be in the middle of my 75th year then, and interested in pageants + for personal and prospective reasons. + </p> + <p> + I beg you to give my best thanks to the Bath Club for the offer of its + hospitalities, but I shall not be able to take advantage of it, because I + am to be a guest in a private house during my stay in London. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was in 1907 that Clemens had seen the Oxford Pageant—during the + week when he had been awarded his doctor's degree. It gave him the + greatest delight, and he fully expected to see the next one, planned + for 1910. + + In the letter to Howells which follows we get another glimpse of + Mark Twain's philosophy of man, the irresponsible machine. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN., + Jan. 18, '09. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR HOWELLS,—I have to write a line, lazy as I am, to say how your + Poe article delighted me; and to say that I am in agreement with + substantially all you say about his literature. To me his prose is + unreadable—like Jane Austin's. No, there is a difference. I could + read his prose on salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It + seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death. + </p> + <p> + Another thing: you grant that God and circumstances sinned against Poe, + but you also grant that he sinned against himself—a thing which he + couldn't do and didn't do. + </p> + <p> + It is lively up here now. I wish you could come. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yrs ever, + MARK +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To W. D. Howells, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + 3 in the morning, Apl. 17, '09. + [Written with pencil]. +</pre> + <p> + My pen has gone dry and the ink is out of reach. Howells, Did you write me + day-before-day before yesterday, or did I dream it? In my mind's eye I + most vividly see your hand-write on a square blue envelop in the mailpile. + I have hunted the house over, but there is no such letter. Was it an + illusion? + </p> + <p> + I am reading Lowell's letter, and smoking. I woke an hour ago and am + reading to keep from wasting the time. On page 305, vol. I. I have just + margined a note: + </p> + <p> + “Young friend! I like that! You ought to see him now.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed startlingly strange to hear a person call you young. It was a + brick out of a blue sky, and knocked me groggy for a moment. Ah me, the + pathos of it is, that we were young then. And he—why, so was he, but + he didn't know it. He didn't even know it 9 years later, when we saw him + approaching and you warned me, saying, “Don't say anything about age—he + has just turned fifty, and thinks he is old and broods over it.” + </p> + <p> + [Well, Clara did sing! And you wrote her a dear letter.] + </p> + <p> + Time to go to sleep. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours ever, + MARK. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Daniel Kiefer: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [No date.] +</pre> + <p> + DANL KIEFER ESQ. DEAR SIR,—I should be far from willing to have a + political party named after me. + </p> + <p> + I would not be willing to belong to a party which allowed its members to + have political aspirations or to push friends forward for political + preferment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours very truly, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The copyright extension, for which the author had been working so + long, was granted by Congress in 1909, largely as the result of that + afternoon in Washington when Mark Twain had “received” in “Uncle + Joe” Cannon's private room, and preached the gospel of copyright + until the daylight faded and the rest of the Capitol grew still. + Champ Clark was the last to linger that day and they had talked far + into the dusk. Clark was powerful, and had fathered the bill. Now + he wrote to know if it was satisfactory. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Champ Clark, in Washington: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STORMFIELD, REDDING, CONN., June 5, '09. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR CHAMP CLARK—Is the new copyright law acceptable to me? + Emphatically, yes! Clark, it is the only sane, and clearly defined, and + just and righteous copyright law that has ever existed in the United + States. Whosoever will compare it with its predecessors will have no + trouble in arriving at that decision. + </p> + <p> + The bill which was before the committee two years ago when I was down + there was the most stupefying jumble of conflicting and apparently + irreconcilable interests that was ever seen; and we all said “the case is + hopeless, absolutely hopeless—out of this chaos nothing can be + built.” But we were in error; out of that chaotic mass this excellent bill + has been instructed; the warring interests have been reconciled, and the + result is as comely and substantial a legislative edifice as lifts its + domes and towers and protective lightning rods out of the statute book, I + think. When I think of that other bill, which even the Deity couldn't + understand, and of this one which even I can understand, I take off my hat + to the man or men who devised this one. Was it R. U. Johnson? Was it the + Author's League? Was it both together? I don't know, but I take off my + hat, anyway. Johnson has written a valuable article about the new law—I + enclose it. + </p> + <p> + At last—at last and for the first time in copyright history we are + ahead of England! Ahead of her in two ways: by length of time and by + fairness to all interests concerned. Does this sound like shouting? Then I + must modify it: all we possessed of copyright-justice before the fourth of + last March we owed to England's initiative. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Truly Yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because Mark Twain amused himself with certain aspects of Christian + Science, and was critical of Mrs. Eddy, there grew up a wide + impression that he jeered at the theory of mental healing; when, as + a matter of fact, he was one of its earliest converts, and never + lost faith in its power. The letter which follows is an excellent + exposition of his attitude toward the institution of Christian + Science and the founder of the church in America. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To J. Wylie Smith, Glasgow, Scotland: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “STORMFIELD,” August 7, 1909 +</pre> + <p> + DEAR SIR,—My view of the matter has not changed. To wit, that + Christian Science is valuable; that it has just the same value now that it + had when Mrs. Eddy stole it from Quimby; that its healing principle (its + most valuable asset) possesses the same force now that it possessed a + million years ago before Quimby was born; that Mrs. Eddy... organized that + force, and is entitled to high credit for that. Then, with a splendid + sagacity she hitched it to... a religion, the surest of all ways to secure + friends for it, and support. In a fine and lofty way—figuratively + speaking—it was a tramp stealing a ride on the lightning express. + Ah, how did that ignorant village-born peasant woman know the human being + so well? She has no more intellect than a tadpole—until it comes to + business then she is a marvel! Am I sorry I wrote the book? Most certainly + not. You say you have 500 (converts) in Glasgow. Fifty years from now, + your posterity will not count them by the hundred, but by the thousand. I + feel absolutely sure of this. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very truly yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clemens wrote very little for publication that year, but he enjoyed + writing for his own amusement, setting down the things that boiled, + or bubbled, within him: mainly chapters on the inconsistencies of + human deportment, human superstition and human creeds. The “Letters + from the Earth” referred to in the following, were supposed to have + been written by an immortal visitant from some far realm to a + friend, describing the absurdities of mankind. It is true, as he + said, that they would not do for publication, though certainly the + manuscript contains some of his most delicious writing. Miss + Wallace, to whom the next letter is written, had known Mark Twain in + Bermuda, and, after his death, published a dainty volume entitled + Mark Twain in the Happy Island. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “STORMFIELD,” REDDING, CONNECTICUT, + Nov. 13, '09. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR BETSY,—I've been writing “Letters from the Earth,” and if you + will come here and see us I will—what? Put the MS in your hands, + with the places to skip marked? No. I won't trust you quite that far. I'll + read messages to you. This book will never be published—in fact it + couldn't be, because it would be felony to soil the mails with it, for it + has much Holy Scripture in it of the kind that... can't properly be read + aloud, except from the pulpit and in family worship. Paine enjoys it, but + Paine is going to be damned one of these days, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + The autumn splendors passed you by? What a pity. I wish you had been here. + It was beyond words! It was heaven and hell and sunset and rainbows and + the aurora all fused into one divine harmony, and you couldn't look at it + and keep the tears back. All the hosannahing strong gorgeousnesses have + gone back to heaven and hell and the pole, now, but no matter; if you + could look out of my bedroom window at this moment, you would choke up; + and when you got your voice you would say: This is not real, this is a + dream. Such a singing together, and such a whispering together, and such a + snuggling together of cosy soft colors, and such kissing and caressing, + and such pretty blushing when the sun breaks out and catches those dainty + weeds at it—you remember that weed-garden of mine?—and then—then + the far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance—oh, hearing about it is + nothing, you should be here to see it. + </p> + <p> + Good! I wish I could go on the platform and read. And I could, if it could + be kept out of the papers. There's a charity-school of 400 young girls in + Boston that I would give my ears to talk to, if I had some more; but—oh, + well, I can't go, and it's no use to grieve about it. + </p> + <p> + This morning Jean went to town; also Paine; also the butler; also Katy; + also the laundress. The cook and the maid, and the boy and the roustabout + and Jean's coachman are left—just enough to make it lonesome, + because they are around yet never visible. However, the Harpers are + sending Leigh up to play billiards; therefore I shall survive. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Affectionately, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Early in June that year, Clemens had developed unmistakable symptoms + of heart trouble of a very serious nature. It was angina pectoris, + and while to all appearances he was as well as ever and usually felt + so, he was periodically visited by severe attacks of acute “breast + pains” which, as the months passed, increased in frequency and + severity. He was alarmed and distressed—not on his own account, + but because of his daughter Jean—a handsome girl, who had long been + subject to epileptic seizures. In case of his death he feared that + Jean would be without permanent anchorage, his other daughter, + Clara—following her marriage to Ossip Gabrilowitsch in October + —having taken up residence abroad. + + This anxiety was soon ended. On the morning of December 24th, Jean + Clemens was found dead in her apartment. She was not drowned in her + bath, as was reported, but died from heart exhaustion, the result of + her malady and the shock of cold water. + + [Questionable diagnosis! D.W. M.D.] + + The blow to her father was terrible, but heavy as it was, one may + perhaps understand that her passing in that swift, painless way must + have afforded him a measure of relief. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Mrs. Gabrilowitsch, in Europe: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REDDING, CONN., + Dec. 29, '09. +</pre> + <p> + O, Clara, Clara dear, I am so glad she is out of it and safe—safe! I + am not melancholy; I shall never be melancholy again, I think. You see, I + was in such distress when I came to realize that you were gone far away + and no one stood between her and danger but me—and I could die at + any moment, and then—oh then what would become of her! For she was + wilful, you know, and would not have been governable. + </p> + <p> + You can't imagine what a darling she was, that last two or three days; and + how fine, and good, and sweet, and noble-and joyful, thank Heaven!—and + how intellectually brilliant. I had never been acquainted with Jean + before. I recognized that. + </p> + <p> + But I mustn't try to write about her—I can't. I have already poured + my heart out with the pen, recording that last day or two. + </p> + <p> + I will send you that—and you must let no one but Ossip read it. + </p> + <p> + Good-bye. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I love you so! + And Ossip. + FATHER. +</pre> + <p> + The writing mentioned in the last paragraph was his article 'The Death of + Jean,' his last serious writing, and one of the world's most beautiful + examples of elegiac prose.—[Harper's Magazine, Dec., 1910,] and + later in the volume, 'What Is Man and Other Essays.' + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XLVIII. LETTERS OF 1910. LAST TRIP TO BERMUDA. LETTERS TO PAINE. THE LAST + LETTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mark Twain had returned from a month's trip to Bermuda a few days + before Jean died. Now, by his physician's advice, he went back to + those balmy islands. He had always loved them, since his first trip + there with Twichell thirty-three years earlier, and at “Bay House,” + the residence of Vice-Consul Allen, where he was always a welcome + guest, he could have the attentions and care and comforts of a home. + Taking Claude, the butler, as his valet, he sailed January 5th, and + presently sent back a letter in which he said, “Again I am leading + the ideal life, and am immeasurably content.” + + By his wish, the present writer and his family were keeping the + Stormfield house open for him, in order that he might be able to + return to its comforts at any time. He sent frequent letters—one + or two by each steamer—but as a rule they did not concern matters + of general interest. A little after his arrival, however, he wrote + concerning an incident of his former visit—a trivial matter—but + one which had annoyed him. I had been with him in Bermuda on the + earlier visit, and as I remember it, there had been some slight + oversight on his part in the matter of official etiquette—something + which doubtless no one had noticed but himself. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To A. B. Paine, in Redding: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BAY HOUSE, Jan. 11, 1910. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR PAINE,—... There was a military lecture last night at the + Officer's Mess, prospect, and as the lecturer honored me with a special + and urgent invitation and said he wanted to lecture to me particularly, I + being “the greatest living master of the platform-art,” I naturally packed + Helen and her mother into the provided carriage and went. + </p> + <p> + As soon as we landed at the door with the crowd the Governor came to me at + once and was very cordial, and apparently as glad to see me as he said he + was. So that incident is closed. And pleasantly and entirely + satisfactorily. Everything is all right, now, and I am no longer in a + clumsy and awkward situation. + </p> + <p> + I “met up” with that charming Colonel Chapman, and other officers of the + regiment, and had a good time. + </p> + <p> + Commandant Peters of the “Carnegie” will dine here tonight and arrange a + private visit for us to his ship, the crowd to be denied access. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely Yours, + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Helen” of this letter was Mr. and Mrs. Allen's young daughter, + a favorite companion of his walks and drives. “Loomis” and “Lark,” + mentioned in the letters which follow, were Edward E. Loomis—his + nephew by marriage—named by Mark Twain as one of the trustees of + his estate, and Charles T. Lark, Mark Twain's attorney. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To A. B. Paine, in Redding: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAMILTON, Jan. 21, '10. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR PAINE,—Thanks for your letter, and for its contenting news of + the situation in that foreign and far-off and vaguely-remembered country + where you and Loomis and Lark and other beloved friends are. + </p> + <p> + I have a letter from Clara this morning. She is solicitous, and wants me + well and watchfully taken care of. My, she ought to see Helen and her + parents and Claude administer that trust! + </p> + <p> + Also she says: “I hope to hear from you or Mr. Paine very soon.” + </p> + <p> + I am writing her, and I know you will respond to your part of her prayer. + She is pretty desolate now, after Jean's emancipation—the only + kindness God ever did that poor unoffending child in all her hard life. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ys ever + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Send Clara a copy of Howells's gorgeous letter. I want a copy of my + article that he is speaking of. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The “gorgeous letter” was concerning Mark Twain's article, “The + Turning-point in My Life” which had just appeared in one of the + Harper publications. Howells wrote of it, “While your wonderful + words are warm in my mind yet, I want to tell you what you know + already: that you never wrote anything greater, finer, than that + turning-point paper of yours.” + + From the early Bermuda letters we may gather that Mark Twain's days + were enjoyable enough, and that his malady was not giving him + serious trouble, thus far. Near the end of January he wrote: “Life + continues here the same as usual. There isn't a flaw in it. Good + times, good home, tranquil contentment all day and every day, + without a break. I shouldn't know how to go about bettering my + situation.” He did little in the way of literary work, probably + finding neither time nor inclination for it. When he wrote at all + it was merely to set down some fanciful drolleries with no thought + of publication. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Prof. William Lyon Phelps, Yale College: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAMILTON, March 12. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR PROFESSOR PHELPS,—I thank you ever so much for the book—[Professor + Phelps's Essays on Modern Novelists.]—which I find charming—so + charming indeed, that I read it through in a single night, and did not + regret the lost night's sleep. I am glad if I deserve what you have said + about me: and even if I don't I am proud and well contented, since you + think I deserve it. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I saw Prof. Lounsbury, and had a most pleasant time with him. He + ought to have staid longer in this little paradise—partly for his + own sake, but mainly for mine. + </p> + <p> + I knew my poor Jean had written you. I shall not have so dear and sweet a + secretary again. + </p> + <p> + Good health to you, and all good fortune attend you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He would appear to have written not many letters besides those to + Mrs. Gabrilowitsch and to Stormfield, but when a little girl sent + him a report of a dream, inspired by reading The Prince and the + Pauper, he took the time and trouble to acknowledge it, realizing, + no doubt, that a line from him would give the child happiness. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Miss Sulamith, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “BAY HOUSE,” BERMUDA, March 21, 1910. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MISS SULAMITH,—I think it is a remarkable dream for a girl of + 13 to have dreamed, in fact for a person of any age to have dreamed, + because it moves by regular grade and sequence from the beginning to the + end, which is not the habit of dreams. I think your report of it is a good + piece of work, a clear and effective statement of the vision. + </p> + <p> + I am glad to know you like the “Prince and the Pauper” so well and I + believe with you that the dream is good evidence of that liking. I think I + may say, with your sister that I like myself best when I am serious. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sincerely yours, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through February, and most of March, letters and reports from him + were about the same. He had begun to plan for his return, and + concerning amusements at Stormfield for the entertainment of the + neighbors, and for the benefit of the library which he had founded + soon after his arrival in Redding. In these letters he seldom + mentioned the angina pains that had tortured him earlier. But once, + when he sent a small photograph of himself, it seemed to us that his + face had become thin and that he had suffered. Certainly his next + letter was not reassuring. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To A. B. Paine, in Redding: + </p> + <p> + DEAR PAINE,—We must look into the magic-lantern business. Maybe the + modern lantern is too elaborate and troublesome for back-settlement use, + but we can inquire. We must have some kind of a show at “Stormfield” to + entertain the countryside with. + </p> + <p> + We are booked to sail in the “Bermudian” April 23rd, but don't tell + anybody, I don't want it known. I may have to go sooner if the pain in my + breast doesn't mend its ways pretty considerably. I don't want to die here + for this is an unkind place for a person in that condition. I should have + to lie in the undertaker's cellar until the ship would remove me and it is + dark down there and unpleasant. + </p> + <p> + The Colliers will meet me on the pier and I may stay with them a week or + two before going home. It all depends on the breast pain—I don't + want to die there. I am growing more and more particular about the place. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With love, + S. L. C. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This letter had been written by the hand of his “secretary,” Helen + Allen: writing had become an effort to him. Yet we did not suspect + how rapidly the end was approaching and only grew vaguely alarmed. + A week later, however, it became evident that his condition was + critical. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR PAINE,—.... I have been having a most uncomfortable time for + the past 4 days with that breast-pain, which turns out to be an affection + of the heart, just as I originally suspected. The news from New York is to + the effect that non-bronchial weather has arrived there at last, therefore + if I can get my breast trouble in traveling condition I may sail for home + a week or two earlier than has heretofore been proposed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yours as ever + S. L. CLEMENS, + (per H. S. A.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In this letter he seems to have forgotten that his trouble had been + pronounced an affection of the heart long before he left America, + though at first it had been thought that it might be gastritis. + The same mail brought a letter from Mr. Allen explaining fully the + seriousness of his condition. I sailed immediately for Bermuda, + arriving there on the 4th of April. He was not suffering at the + moment, though the pains came now with alarming frequency and + violence. He was cheerful and brave. He did not complain. He gave + no suggestion of a man whose days were nearly ended. + + A part of the Stormfield estate had been a farm, which he had given + to Jean Clemens, where she had busied herself raising some live + stock and poultry. After her death he had wished the place to be + sold and the returns devoted to some memorial purpose. The sale had + been made during the winter and the price received had been paid in + cash. I found him full of interest in all affairs, and anxious to + discuss the memorial plan. A day or two later he dictated the + following letter-the last he would ever send. + + It seemed fitting that this final word from one who had so long + given happiness to the whole world should record a special gift to + his neighbors. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To Charles T. Lark, in New York: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAMILTON, BERMUDA. + April 6, 1910. +</pre> + <p> + DEAR MR. LARK,—I have told Paine that I want the money derived from + the sale of the farm, which I had given, but not conveyed, to my daughter + Jean, to be used to erect a building for the Mark Twain Library of + Redding, the building to be called the Jean L. Clemens Memorial Building. + </p> + <p> + I wish to place the money $6,000.00 in the hands of three trustees,—Paine + and two others: H. A. Lounsbury and William E. Hazen, all of Redding, + these trustees to form a building Committee to decide on the size and plan + of the building needed and to arrange for and supervise the work in such a + manner that the fund shall amply provide for the building complete, with + necessary furnishings, leaving, if possible, a balance remaining, + sufficient for such repairs and additional furnishings as may be required + for two years from the time of completion. + </p> + <p> + Will you please draw a document covering these requirements and have it + ready by the time I reach New York (April 14th). + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Very sincerely, + S. L. CLEMENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We sailed on the 12th of April, reaching New York on the 14th, + as he had planned. A day or two later, Mr. and Mrs. Gabrilowitsch, + summoned from Italy by cable, arrived. He suffered very little + after reaching Stormfield, and his mind was comparatively clear up + to the last day. On the afternoon of April 21st he sank into a + state of coma, and just at sunset he died. Three days later, at + Elmira, New York, he was laid beside Mrs. Clemens and those others + who had preceded him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE LAST DAY AT STORMFIELD + + By BLISS CARMAN. + + At Redding, Connecticut, + The April sunrise pours + Over the hardwood ridges + Softening and greening now + In the first magic of Spring. + + The wild cherry-trees are in bloom, + The bloodroot is white underfoot, + The serene early light flows on, + + Touching with glory the world, + And flooding the large upper room + Where a sick man sleeps. + Slowly he opens his eyes, + After long weariness, smiles, + And stretches arms overhead, + While those about him take heart. + + With his awakening strength, + (Morning and spring in the air, + The strong clean scents of earth, + The call of the golden shaft, + Ringing across the hills) + He takes up his heartening book, + Opens the volume and reads, + A page of old rugged Carlyle, + The dour philosopher + Who looked askance upon life, + Lurid, ironical, grim, + Yet sound at the core. + But weariness returns; + He lays the book aside + With his glasses upon the bed, + And gladly sleeps. Sleep, + Blessed abundant sleep, + Is all that he needs. + + And when the close of day + Reddens upon the hills + And washes the room with rose, + In the twilight hush + The Summoner comes to him + Ever so gently, unseen, + + Touches him on the shoulder; + And with the departing sun + Our great funning friend is gone. + + How he has made us laugh! + A whole generation of men + Smiled in the joy of his wit. + But who knows whether he was not + Like those deep jesters of old + Who dwelt at the courts of Kings, + Arthur's, Pendragon's, Lear's, + Plying the wise fool's trade, + Making men merry at will, + Hiding their deeper thoughts + Under a motley array,— + Keen-eyed, serious men, + Watching the sorry world, + The gaudy pageant of life, + With pity and wisdom and love? + + Fearless, extravagant, wild, + His caustic merciless mirth + Was leveled at pompous shams. + Doubt not behind that mask + There dwelt the soul of a man, + Resolute, sorrowing, sage, + As sure a champion of good + As ever rode forth to fray. + + Haply—who knows?—somewhere + In Avalon, Isle of Dreams, + In vast contentment at last, + With every grief done away, + While Chaucer and Shakespeare wait, + And Moliere hangs on his words, + And Cervantes not far off + Listens and smiles apart, + With that incomparable drawl + He is jesting with Dagonet now. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Letters Of Mark Twain, Volume 6, +1907-1910, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWAIN LETTERS, VOL. 6 *** + +***** This file should be named 3198-h.htm or 3198-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/3198/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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