Would you and Mrs. Howells like to invite Mr. and Mrs. Aldrich?  I have a large proscenium box—­plenty of room.  Use your own pleasure about it —­I mainly (that is honest,) suggest it because I am seeking to make matters pleasant for you and Mrs. Howells.  I invited Twichell because I thought I knew you’d like that.  I want you to fix it so that you and the Madam can remain in Boston all night; for I leave next day and we can’t have a talk, otherwise.  I am going to get two rooms and a parlor; and would like to know what you decide about the Aldriches, so as to know whether to apply for an additional bedroom or not.

Don’t dine that evening, for I shall arrive dinnerless and need your help.

I’ll bring my Blindfold Novelette, but shan’t exhibit it unless you exhibit yours.  You would simply go to work and write a novelette that would make mine sick.  Because you would know all about where my weak points lay.  No, Sir, I’m one of these old wary birds!

Don’t bother to write a letter—­3 lines on a postal card is all that I
can permit from a busy man. 
                         Yrs ever
                                   Mark.

P. S. Good!  You’ll not have to feel any call to mention that debut in the Atlantic—­they’ve made me pay the grand cash for my box!—­a thing which most managers would be too worldly-wise to do, with journalistic folks.  But I’m most honestly glad, for I’d rather pay three prices, any time, than to have my tongue half paralyzed with a dead-head ticket.

Hang that Anna Dickinson, a body can never depend upon her debuts!  She has made five or six false starts already.  If she fails to debut this time, I will never bet on her again.

In his book, My Mark Twain, Howells refers to the “tragedy” of Miss Dickinson’s appearance.  She was the author of numerous plays, some of which were successful, but her career as an actress was never brilliant.

At Elmira that summer the Clemenses heard from their good friend
Doctor Brown, of Edinburgh, and sent eager replies.

To Dr. John Brown, in Edinburgh: 

Elmira, new York, U. S. June 22, 1876.  Dear friend the doctor,—­It was a perfect delight to see the well-known handwriting again!  But we so grieve to know that you are feeling miserable.  It must not last—­it cannot last.  The regal summer is come and it will smile you into high good cheer; it will charm away your pains, it will banish your distresses.  I wish you were here, to spend the summer with us.  We are perched on a hill-top that overlooks a little world of green valleys, shining rivers, sumptuous forests and billowy uplands veiled in the haze of distance.  We have no neighbors.  It is the quietest of all quiet places, and we are hermits that eschew caves and live in the sun.  Doctor, if you’d only come!