DEAR FOLKS,--Livy sends you her love and loving good wishes, and I send
you mine. The last 3 chapters of the book came tonight--we shall read it
in the morning and then thank goodness, we are done.
In twelve months (or rather I believe it is fourteen,) I have earned
just eighty dollars by my pen--two little magazine squibs and one
newspaper letter--altogether the idlest, laziest 14 months I ever spent
in my life. And in that time my absolute and necessary expenses have
been scorchingly heavy--for I have now less than three thousand six
hundred dollars in bank out of the eight or nine thousand I have made
during those months, lecturing. My expenses were something frightful
during the winter. I feel ashamed of my idleness, and yet I have had
really no inclination to do anything but court Livy. I haven't any other
inclination yet. I have determined not to work as hard traveling,
any more, as I did last winter, and so I have resolved not to lecture
outside of the 6 New England States next winter. My Western course would
easily amount to $10,000, but I would rather make 2 or 3 thousand in New
England than submit again to so much wearing travel. (I have promised
to talk ten nights for a thousand dollars in the State of New York,
provided the places are close together.) But after all if I get located
in a newspaper in a way to suit me, in the meantime, I don't want to
lecture at all next winter, and probably shan't. I most cordially hate
the lecture field. And after all, I shudder to think that I may never
get out of it.
In all conversations with Gough, and Anna Dickinson, Nasby, Oliver
Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips and the other old stagers, I could not
observe that they ever expected or hoped to get out of the business. I
don't want to get wedded to it as they are. Livy thinks we can live on
a very moderate sum and that we'll not need to lecture. I know very
well that she can live on a small allowance, but I am not so sure about
myself. I can't scare her by reminding her that her father's family
expenses are forty thousand dollars a year, because she produces the
documents at once to show that precious little of this outlay is on her
account. But I must not commence writing about Livy, else I shall never
stop. There isn't such another little piece of perfection in the world
as she is.
My time is become so short, now, that I doubt if I get to California
this summer. If I manage to buy into a paper, I think I will visit you
a while and not go to Cal. at all. I shall know something about it
after my next trip to Hartford. We all go there on the 10th--the whole
family--to attend a wedding, on the 17th. I am offered an interest in a
Cleveland paper which would pay me $2,300 to $2,500 a year, and a salary
added of $3,000. The salary is fair enough, but the interest is not
large enough, and so I must look a little further. The Cleveland folks
say they can be induced to do a little better by me, and urge me to
come out and talk business. But it don't strike me--I feel little or no
inclination to go.
I believe I haven't anything else to write, and it is bed-time. I want
to write to Orion, but I keep putting it off--I keep putting everything
off. Day after day Livy and I are together all day long and until 10 at
night, and then I feel dreadfully sleepy. If Orion will bear with me and
forgive me I will square up with him yet. I will even let him kiss Livy.
My love to Mollie and Annie and Sammie and all. Good-bye.
Affectionately,
SAM.
It is curious, with his tendency to optimism and general expansion
of futures, that he says nothing of the possible sales of the new
book, or of his expectations in that line. It was issued in July,
and by June the publishers must have had promising advance orders
from their canvassers; but apparently he includes none of these
chickens in his financial forecast. Even when the book had been out
a full month, and was being shipped at the rate of several hundreds
a day, he makes no reference to it in a letter to his sister, other
than to ask if she has not received a copy. This, however, was a
Mark Twain peculiarity. Writing was his trade; the returns from it
seldom excited him. It was only when he drifted into strange and
untried fields that he began to chase rainbows, to blow iridescent
bubbles, and count unmined gold.
*****
To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:
BUFFALO, Aug. 20, 1869.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have only time to write a line. I got your letter
this morning and mailed it to Livy. She will be expecting me tonight and
I am sorry to disappoint her so, but then I couldn't well get away. I
will go next Saturday.
I have bundled up Livy's picture and will try and recollect to mail it
tomorrow. It is a porcelaintype and I think you will like it.
I am sorry I never got to St. Louis, because I may be too busy to go,
for a long time. But I have been busy all the time and St. Louis is
clear out of the way, and remote from the world and all ordinary routes
of travel. You must not place too much weight upon this idea of moving
the capital from Washington. St. Louis is in some respects a better
place for it than Washington, though there isn't more than a toss-up
between the two after all. One is dead and the other in a trance.
Washington is in the centre of population and business, while St. Louis
is far removed from both. And you know there is no geographical centre
any more. The railroads and telegraph have done away with all that. It
is no longer a matter of sufficient importance to be gravely considered
by thinking men. The only centres, now, are narrowed down to those of
intelligence, capital and population. As I said before Washington is the
nearest to those and you don't have to paddle across a river on ferry
boats of a pattern popular in the dark ages to get to it, nor have to
clamber up vilely paved hills in rascally omnibuses along with a herd
of all sorts of people after you are there. Secondly, the removal of
the capital is one of those old, regular, reliable dodges that are the
bread-and meat of back country congressmen. It is agitated every year.
It always has been, it always will be; It is not new in any respect.
Thirdly. The Capitol has cost $40,000,000 already and lacks a good deal
of being finished, yet. There are single stones in the Treasury building
(and a good many of them) that cost twenty-seven thousand dollars
apiece--and millions were spent in the construction of that and the
Patent Office and the other great government buildings. To move to
St. Louis, the country must throw away a hundred millions of capital
invested in those buildings, and go right to work to spend a hundred
millions on new buildings in St. Louis. Shall we ever have a Congress, a
majority of whose members are hopelessly insane? Probably not. But it is
possible--unquestionably such a thing is possible. Only I don't believe
it will happen in our time; and I am satisfied the capital will not be
moved until it does happen. But if St. Louis would donate the ground and
the buildings, it would be a different matter. No, Pamela, I don't see
any good reason to believe you or I will ever see the capital moved.
I have twice instructed the publishers to send you a book--it was the
first thing I did--long before the proofs were finished. Write me if it
is not yet done.
Livy says we must have you all at our marriage, and I say we can't. It
will be at Christmas or New Years, when such a trip across the country
would be equivalent to murder & arson & everything else.--And it would
cost five hundred dollars--an amount of money she don't know the value
of now, but will before a year is gone. She grieves over it, poor little
rascal, but it can't be helped. She must wait awhile, till I am firmly
on my legs, & then she shall see you. She says her father and mother
will invite you just as soon as the wedding date is definitely fixed,
anyway--& she thinks that's bound to settle it. But the ice & snow, &
the long hard journey, & the injudiciousness of laying out any money
except what we are obliged to part with while we are so much in debt,
settles the case differently. For it is a debt.
.... Mr. Langdon is just as good as bound for $25,000 for me, and has
already advanced half of it in cash. I wrote and asked whether I had
better send him my note, or a due-bill, or how he would prefer to have
the indebtedness made of record and he answered every other topic in the
letter pleasantly but never replied to that at all. Still, I shall
give my note into the hands of his business agent here, and pay him the
interest as it falls due. We must “go slow.” We are not in the Cleveland
Herald. We are a hundred thousand times better off, but there isn't so
much money in it.
(Remainder missing.)
In spite of the immediate success of his book--a success the like of
which had scarcely been known in America--Mark Twain held himself to
be, not a literary man, but a journalist: He had no plans for
another book; as a newspaper owner and editor he expected, with his
marriage, to settle down and devote the rest of his life to
journalism. The paper was the Buffalo Express; his interest in it
was one-third--the purchase price, twenty-five thousand dollars, of
which he had paid a part, Jervis Langdon, his future father-in-law,
having furnished cash and security for the remainder. He was
already in possession in August, but he was not regularly in Buffalo
that autumn, for he had agreed with Redpath to deliver his Quaker
City lecture, and the tour would not end until a short time before
his wedding-day, February 2, 1870.
Our next letter hardly belongs in this collection; as it was
doubtless written with at least the possibility of publication in
view. But it is too amusing, too characteristic of Mark Twain, to
be omitted. It was sent in response to an invitation from the New
York Society of California Pioneers to attend a banquet given in New
York City, October 13, 1869, and was, of course, read to the
assembled diners.
*****
To the New York Society of California Pioneers, in New York City:
ELMIRA, October 11, 1869.
GENTLEMEN,--Circumstances render it out of my power to take advantage
of the invitation extended to me through Mr. Simonton, and be present at
your dinner at New York. I regret this very much, for there are several
among you whom I would have a right to join hands with on the score of
old friendship, and I suppose I would have a sublime general right to
shake hands with the rest of you on the score of kinship in California
ups and downs in search of fortune.
If I were to tell some of my experience, you would recognize California
blood in me; I fancy the old, old story would sound familiar, no
doubt. I have the usual stock of reminiscences. For instance: I went to
Esmeralda early. I purchased largely in the “Wide West,” “Winnemucca,”
and other fine claims, and was very wealthy. I fared sumptuously on
bread when flour was $200 a barrel and had beans for dinner every
Sunday, when none but bloated aristocrats could afford such grandeur.
But I finished by feeding batteries in a quartz mill at $15 a week, and
wishing I was a battery myself and had somebody to feed me. My claims in
Esmeralda are there yet. I suppose I could be persuaded to sell.
I went to Humboldt District when it was new; I became largely interested
in the “Alba Nueva” and other claims with gorgeous names, and was rich
again--in prospect. I owned a vast mining property there. I would not
have sold out for less than $400,000 at that time. But I will now.
Finally I walked home--200 miles partly for exercise, and partly because
stage fare was expensive. Next I entered upon an affluent career in
Virginia City, and by a judicious investment of labor and the capital
of friends, became the owner of about all the worthless wild cat mines
there were in that part of the country. Assessments did the business
for me there. There were a hundred and seventeen assessments to one
dividend, and the proportion of income to outlay was a little against
me. My financial barometer went down to 32 Fahrenheit, and the
subscriber was frozen out.
I took up extensions on the main lead-extensions that reached to
British America, in one direction, and to the Isthmus of Panama in the
other--and I verily believe I would have been a rich man if I had ever
found those infernal extensions. But I didn't. I ran tunnels till I
tapped the Arctic Ocean, and I sunk shafts till I broke through the roof
of perdition; but those extensions turned up missing every time. I am
willing to sell all that property and throw in the improvements.
Perhaps you remember that celebrated “North Ophir?” I bought that mine.
It was very rich in pure silver. You could take it out in lumps as large
as a filbert. But when it was discovered that those lumps were melted
half dollars, and hardly melted at that, a painful case of “salting” was
apparent, and the undersigned adjourned to the poorhouse again.
I paid assessments on “Hale and Norcross” until they sold me out, and
I had to take in washing for a living--and the next month that infamous
stock went up to $7,000 a foot.
I own millions and millions of feet of affluent silver leads in
Nevada--in fact the entire undercrust of that country nearly, and if
Congress would move that State off my property so that I could get at
it, I would be wealthy yet. But no, there she squats--and here am I.
Failing health persuades me to sell. If you know of any one desiring
a permanent investment, I can furnish one that will have the virtue of
being eternal.
I have been through the California mill, with all its “dips, spurs and
angles, variations and sinuosities.” I have worked there at all the
different trades and professions known to the catalogues. I have
been everything, from a newspaper editor down to a cow-catcher on a
locomotive, and I am encouraged to believe that if there had been a few
more occupations to experiment on, I might have made a dazzling success
at last, and found out what mysterious designs Providence had in
creating me.
But you perceive that although I am not a Pioneer, I have had a
sufficiently variegated time of it to enable me to talk Pioneer like a
native, and feel like a Forty-Niner. Therefore, I cordially welcome you
to your old-remembered homes and your long deserted firesides, and close
this screed with the sincere hope that your visit here will be a happy
one, and not embittered by the sorrowful surprises that absence and
lapse of years are wont to prepare for wanderers; surprises which come
in the form of old friends missed from their places; silence where
familiar voices should be; the young grown old; change and decay
everywhere; home a delusion and a disappointment; strangers at
hearthstone; sorrow where gladness was; tears for laughter; the
melancholy-pomp of death where the grace of life has been!
With all good wishes for the Returned Prodigals, and regrets that I
cannot partake of a small piece of the fatted calf (rare and no gravy,)
I am yours, cordially,
MARK TWAIN.
In the next letter we find him in the midst of a sort of confusion
of affairs, which, in one form or another, would follow him
throughout the rest of his life. It was the price of his success
and popularity, combined with his general gift for being concerned
with a number of things, and a natural tendency for getting into hot
water, which becomes more evident as the years and letters pass in
review. Orion Clemens, in his attempt to save money for the
government, had employed methods and agents which the officials at
Washington did not understand, and refused to recognize. Instead of
winning the credit and commendation he had expected, he now found
himself pursued by claims of considerable proportions. The “land”
referred to is the Tennessee tract, the heritage which John Clemens
had provided for his children. Mark Twain had long since lost faith
in it, and was not only willing, but eager to renounce his rights.
“Nasby” is, of course, David R. Locke, of the Toledo Blade, whose
popularity at this time both as a lecturer and writer was very
great. Clemens had met him here and there on their platform tour,
and they had become good friends. Clemens, in fact, had once
proposed to Nasby a joint trip to the Pacific coast.
The California idea had been given up, but both Mark Twain and Nasby
found engagements enough, and sufficient profit east of the
Mississippi. Boston was often their headquarters that winter ['69
and '70), and they were much together. “Josh Billings,” another of
Redpath's lecturers, was likewise often to be found in the Lyceum
offices. There is a photograph of Mark Twain, Nasby, and Josh
Billings together.
Clemens also, that winter, met William Dean Howells, then in the
early days of his association with the Atlantic Monthly. The two
men, so widely different, became firm friends at sight, and it was
to Howells in the years to come that Mark Twain would write more
letters, and more characteristic letters, than to any other living
man. Howells had favorably reviewed 'The Innocents Abroad,' and
after the first moment of their introduction had passed Clemens
said: “When I read that review of yours I felt like the woman who
said that she was so glad that her baby had come white.” It was not
the sort of thing that Howells would have said, but it was the sort
of thing that he could understand and appreciate from Mark Twain.
In company with Nasby Clemens, that season, also met Oliver Wendell
Holmes. Later he had sent Holmes a copy of his book and received a
pleasantly appreciative reply. “I always like,” wrote Holmes, “to
hear what one of my fellow countrymen, who is not a Hebrew scholar,
or a reader of hiero-glyphics, but a good-humored traveler with a
pair of sharp, twinkling Yankee (in the broader sense) eyes in his
head, has to say about the things that learned travelers often make
unintelligible, and sentimental ones ridiculous or absurd.... I
hope your booksellers will sell a hundred thousand copies of your
travels.” A wish that was realized in due time, though it is
doubtful if Doctor Holmes or any one else at the moment believed
that a book of that nature and price (it was $3.50 a copy) would
ever reach such a sale.
*****
To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:
BOSTON, Nov. 9, 1869.
MY DEAR SISTER,--Three or four letters just received from home. My
first impulse was to send Orion a check on my publisher for the money he
wants, but a sober second thought suggested that if he has not defrauded
the government out of money, why pay, simply because the government
chooses to consider him in its debt? No: Right is right. The idea don't
suit me. Let him write the Treasury the state of the case, and tell them
he has no money. If they make his sureties pay, then I will make the
sureties whole, but I won't pay a cent of an unjust claim. You talk of
disgrace. To my mind it would be just as disgraceful to allow one's self
to be bullied into paying that which is unjust.
Ma thinks it is hard that Orion's share of the land should be swept away
just as it is right on the point (as it always has been) of becoming
valuable. Let her rest easy on that point. This letter is his ample
authority to sell my share of the land immediately and appropriate the
proceeds--giving no account to me, but repaying the amount to Ma first,
or in case of her death, to you or your heirs, whenever in the future
he shall be able to do it. Now, I want no hesitation in this matter. I
renounce my ownership from this date, for this purpose, provided it is
sold just as suddenly as he can sell it.
In the next place--Mr. Langdon is old, and is trying hard to
withdraw from business and seek repose. I will not burden him with a
purchase--but I will ask him to take full possession of a coal tract of
the land without paying a cent, simply conditioning that he shall mine
and throw the coal into market at his own cost, and pay to you and all
of you what he thinks is a fair portion of the profits accruing--you
can do as you please with the rest of the land. Therefore, send me
(to Elmira,) information about the coal deposits so framed that he can
comprehend the matter and can intelligently instruct an agent how to
find it and go to work.
Tomorrow night I appear for the first time before a Boston
audience--4,000 critics--and on the success of this matter depends my
future success in New England. But I am not distressed. Nasby is in the
same boat. Tonight decides the fate of his brand-new lecture. He
has just left my room--been reading his lecture to me--was greatly
depressed. I have convinced him that he has little to fear.
I get just about five hundred more applications to lecture than I can
possibly fill--and in the West they say “Charge all you please, but
come.” I shan't go West at all. I stop lecturing the 22d of January,
sure. But I shall talk every night up to that time. They flood me
with high-priced invitations to write for magazines and papers, and
publishers besiege me to write books. Can't do any of these things.
I am twenty-two thousand dollars in debt, and shall earn the money
and pay it within two years--and therefore I am not spending any money
except when it is necessary.
I had my life insured for $10,000 yesterday (what ever became of Mr.
Moffett' s life insurance?) “for the benefit of my natural heirs”--the
same being my mother, for Livy wouldn't claim it, you may be sure of
that. This has taken $200 out of my pocket which I was going to send
to Ma. But I will send her some, soon. Tell Orion to keep a stiff upper
lip--when the worst comes to the worst I will come forward. Must talk in
Providence, R. I., tonight. Must leave now. I thank Mollie and Orion and
the rest for your letters, but you see how I am pushed--ought to have 6
clerks.
Affectionately,
SAM.
By the end of January, 1870 more than thirty thousand copies of the
Innocents had been sold, and in a letter to his publisher the author
expressed his satisfaction.
*****
To Elisha Bliss, in Hartford:
ELMIRA, Jan. 28 '70.
FRIEND BLISS,--.... Yes, I am satisfied with the way you are running the
book. You are running it in staving, tip-top, first-class style. I never
wander into any corner of the country but I find that an agent has been
there before me, and many of that community have read the book. And on
an average about ten people a day come and hunt me up to thank me and
tell me I'm a benefactor! I guess this is a part of the programme we
didn't expect in the first place.
I think you are rushing this book in a manner to be proud of; and
you will make the finest success of it that has ever been made with
a subscription book, I believe. What with advertising, establishing
agencies, &c., you have got an enormous lot of machinery under way and
hard at work in a wonderfully short space of time. It is easy to see,
when one travels around, that one must be endowed with a deal of genuine
generalship in order to maneuvre a publication whose line of battle
stretches from end to end of a great continent, and whose foragers and
skirmishers invest every hamlet and besiege every village hidden away in
all the vast space between.
I'll back you against any publisher in America, Bliss--or elsewhere.
Yrs as ever
CLEMENS.
There is another letter written just at this time which of all
letters must not be omitted here. Only five years earlier Mark
Twain, poor, and comparatively unknown, had been carrying water
while Jim Gillis and Dick Stoker washed out the pans of dirt in
search of the gold pocket which they did not find. Clemens must
have received a letter from Gillis referring to some particular
occasion, but it has disappeared; the reply, however, always
remained one of James Gillis's treasured possessions.
*****
To James Gillis, in his cabin on Jackass Hill, Tuolumne Co., California:
ELMIRA, N.Y. Jan. 26, '70.
DEAR JIM,--I remember that old night just as well! And somewhere among
my relics I have your remembrance stored away. It makes my heart ache
yet to call to mind some of those days. Still, it shouldn't--for right
in the depths of their poverty and their pocket-hunting vagabondage
lay the germ of my coming good fortune. You remember the one gleam
of jollity that shot across our dismal sojourn in the rain and mud of
Angels' Camp I mean that day we sat around the tavern stove and heard
that chap tell about the frog and how they filled him with shot. And you
remember how we quoted from the yarn and laughed over it, out there on
the hillside while you and dear old Stoker panned and washed. I jotted
the story down in my note-book that day, and would have been glad to get
ten or fifteen dollars for it--I was just that blind. But then we
were so hard up! I published that story, and it became widely known in
America, India, China, England--and the reputation it made for me has
paid me thousands and thousands of dollars since. Four or five months
ago I bought into the Express (I have ordered it sent to you as long as
you live--and if the book keeper sends you any bills, you let me hear of
it.) I went heavily in debt never could have dared to do that, Jim, if
we hadn't heard the jumping Frog story that day.
And wouldn't I love to take old Stoker by the hand, and wouldn't I love
to see him in his great specialty, his wonderful rendition of “Rinalds”
in the “Burning Shame!” Where is Dick and what is he doing? Give him my
fervent love and warm old remembrances.
A week from today I shall be married to a girl even better, and lovelier
than the peerless “Chapparal Quails.” You can't come so far, Jim, but
still I cordially invite you to come, anyhow--and I invite Dick, too.
And if you two boys were to land here on that pleasant occasion, we
would make you right royally welcome.
Truly your friend,
SAML L. CLEMENS.
P. S. “California plums are good, Jim--particularly when they are
stewed.”
Steve Gillis, who sent a copy of his letter to the writer, added:
“Dick Stoker--dear, gentle unselfish old Dick-died over three years
ago, aged 78. I am sure it will be a melancholy pleasure to Mark to
know that Dick lived in comfort all his later life, sincerely loved
and respected by all who knew him. He never left Jackass Hill. He
struck a pocket years ago containing enough not only to build
himself a comfortable house near his old cabin, but to last him,
without work, to his painless end. He was a Mason, and was buried
by the Order in Sonora.
“The 'Quails'--the beautiful, the innocent, the wild little Quails
--lived way out in the Chapparal; on a little ranch near the
Stanislaus River, with their father and mother. They were famous
for their beauty and had many suitors.”
The mention of “California plums” refers to some inedible fruit
which Gillis once, out of pure goodness of heart, bought of a poor
wandering squaw, and then, to conceal his motive, declared that they
were something rare and fine, and persisted in eating them, though
even when stewed they nearly choked him.
X. LETTERS 1870-71. MARK TWAIN IN BUFFALO. MARRIAGE. THE BUFFALO
EXPRESS. “MEMORANDA.” LECTURES. A NEW BOOK.
Samuel L. Clemens and Olivia Langdon were married in the Langdon
home at Elmira, February 2, 1870, and took up their residence in
Buffalo in a beautiful home, a wedding present from the bride's
father. The story of their wedding, and the amusing circumstances
connected with their establishment in Buffalo, have been told
elsewhere.--[Mark Twain: A Biography, chap. lxxiv.]
Mark Twain now believed that he was through with lecturing. Two
letters to Redpath, his agent, express his comfortable condition.
*****
To James Redpath, in Boston:
BUFFALO, March 22, 1890.
DEAR RED,--I am not going to lecture any more forever. I have got things
ciphered down to a fraction now. I know just about what it will cost us
to live and I can make the money without lecturing. Therefore old man,
count me out.
Your friend,
S. L. CLEMENS.
*****
To James Redpath, in Boston:
ELMIRA, N. Y. May 10, 1870.
FRIEND REDPATH,--I guess I am out of the field permanently.
Have got a lovely wife; a lovely house, bewitchingly furnished; a
lovely carriage, and a coachman whose style and dignity are simply
awe-inspiring--nothing less--and I am making more money than
necessary--by considerable, and therefore why crucify myself nightly on
the platform. The subscriber will have to be excused from the present
season at least.
Remember me to Nasby, Billings and Fall.--[Redpath's partner in the
lecture lyceum.]--Luck to you! I am going to print your menagerie,
Parton and all, and make comments.
In next Galaxy I give Nasby's friend and mine from Philadelphia (John
Quill, a literary thief) a “hyste.”
Yours always and after.
MARK.
The reference to the Galaxy in the foregoing letter has to do with a
department called Memoranda, which he had undertaken to conduct for
the new magazine. This work added substantially to his income, and
he believed it would be congenial. He was allowed free hand to
write and print what he chose, and some of his best work at this
time was published in the new department, which he continued for a
year.
Mark Twain now seemed to have his affairs well regulated. His
mother and sister were no longer far away in St. Louis. Soon after
his marriage they had, by his advice, taken up residence at
Fredonia, New York, where they could be easily visited from Buffalo.
Altogether, the outlook seemed bright to Mark Twain and his wife,
during the first months of their marriage. Then there came a
change. In a letter which Clemens wrote to his mother and sister we
get the first chapter of disaster.
*****
To Mrs. Jane Clemens, and Mrs. Moffett, in Fredonia, N. Y.:
ELMIRA, N. Y. June 25, 1870.
MY DEAR MOTHER AND SISTER,--We were called here suddenly by telegram, 3
days ago. Mr. Langdon is very low. We have well-nigh lost hope--all of
us except Livy.
Mr. Langdon, whose hope is one of his most prominent characteristics,
says himself, this morning, that his recovery is only a possibility,
not a probability. He made his will this morning--that is, appointed
executors--nothing else was necessary. The household is sad enough
Charley is in Bavaria. We telegraphed Munroe & Co. Paris, to notify
Charley to come home--they sent the message to Munich. Our message left
here at 8 in the morning and Charley's answer arrived less than eight
hours afterward. He sailed immediately.
He will reach home two weeks from now. The whole city is troubled. As I
write (at the office,) a dispatch arrives from Charley who has reached
London, and will sail thence on 28th. He wants news. We cannot send him
any.
Affectionately
SAM.
P. S. I sent $300 to Fredonia Bank for Ma--It is in her name.
Mrs. Clemens, herself, was not in the best of health at this time,
but devotion to her father took her to his bedside, where she
insisted upon standing long, hard watches, the strain of which told
upon her severely. Meantime, work must go on; the daily demand of
the newspaper and the monthly call of the Memoranda could not go
unheeded. Also, Bliss wanted a new book, and met Mark Twain at
Elmira to arrange for it. In a letter to Orion we learn of this
project.
*****
To Orion Clemens, in St. Louis: