It is out of that moderate letter that the Eighty-Two Thousand-Dollar mare’s nest has developed.  But why do you worry about the various reports?  They do not worry me.  They are not unfriendly, and I don’t see how they can do any harm.  Be patient; you have but a little while to wait; the possible reports are nearly all in.  It has been reported that I was seriously ill—­it was another man; dying—­it was another man; dead —­the other man again.  It has been reported that I have received a legacy it was another man; that I am out of debt—­it was another man; and now comes this $82,000—­still another man.  It has been reported that I am writing books—­for publication; I am not doing anything of the kind.  It would surprise (and gratify) me if I should be able to get another book ready for the press within the next three years.  You can see, yourself, that there isn’t anything more to be reported—­invention is exhausted.  Therefore, don’t worry, Bliss—­the long night is breaking.  As far as I can see, nothing remains to be reported, except that I have become a foreigner.  When you hear it, don’t you believe it.  And don’t take the trouble to deny it.  Merely just raise the American flag on our house in Hartford, and let it talk. 
                                   Truly yours,
                                             mark Twain.

P. S. This is not a private letter.  I am getting tired of private letters.

To Rev. J. H. Twichell, in Hartford: 

Vienna
hotelMetropole, Nov. 19, ’97. 
Dear Joe,—­Above is our private (and permanent) address for the winter.  You needn’t send letters by London.

I am very much obliged for Forrest’s Austro-Hungarian articles.  I have just finished reading the first one:  and in it I find that his opinion and Vienna’s are the same, upon a point which was puzzling me—­the paucity (no, the absence) of Austrian Celebrities.  He and Vienna both say the country cannot afford to allow great names to grow up; that the whole safety and prosperity of the Empire depends upon keeping things quiet; can’t afford to have geniuses springing up and developing ideas and stirring the public soul.  I am assured that every time a man finds himself blooming into fame, they just softly snake him down and relegate him to a wholesome obscurity.  It is curious and interesting.

Three days ago the New York World sent and asked a friend of mine (correspondent of a London daily) to get some Christmas greetings from the celebrities of the Empire.  She spoke of this.  Two or three bright Austrians were present.  They said “There are none who are known all over the world! none who have achieved fame; none who can point to their work and say it is known far and wide in the earth:  there are no names; Kossuth (known because he had a father) and Lecher, who made the 12 hour speech; two names-nothing more.  Every other country in the world, perhaps, has a giant or two whose heads are away up and can be seen, but ours.  We’ve got the material—­have always had it—­but we have to suppress it; we can’t afford to let it develop; our political salvation depends upon tranquillity—­always has.”